


Your Body Is a Weapon

by vargrimar



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Achingly slow character growth for both protagonists, Autistic Symmetra, Developing Relationship, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Gradual Romance, Internal Conflict, Occasional Action, Post-Recall, Pre-prosthetic Symmetra, Satya makes lots of friends and doesn't know what to do with herself, Slow Burn, Suddenly plot, also: friendship growth with the entire team, alternate title: How Satya Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb, this honestly started as a way to get them to kiss but that backfired didn't it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-07-11 22:17:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 41
Words: 239,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7072693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vargrimar/pseuds/vargrimar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Junkrat joins the 'Overwatch: Recall' initiative. Symmetra is not pleased. A struggle of chaos versus order explores the slow, gradual development of an odd relationship between two dissimilar individuals who just so happen to view the world's components through a similar lens.</p><p>Alternatively, "In which Junkrat grows on Symmetra like an undesirable plant on the sidewalk and she copes with it in progressively worsening ways."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first time Satya sees Junkrat, it’s when Winston and Tracer return from one of their headhunting excursions.

Clustered over by the facility entrance, a wiry man and a living mountain accompany the two disproportionate shapes of her friends. From her vantage point in the workshop threshold, she assesses the strangers’ choice of dress. Tattered and ragged might be generous terms, she thinks, and lacking seems far more apt. Neither wears a shirt of any kind; instead, some sort of harness is strapped across the chest of each. Odds and ends are hitched to their hips and shoulders, none of which she can quite see. Supplies, she supposes, but with the bulky weapons slung across their backs, “supplies” could mean almost anything.

The wiry man leans in toward Winston with a hunched posture, conversing rather animatedly with his hands. Half of his right arm appears to be a replacement, albeit a crude one—did he design it himself? He should have consulted a proper mechanic!—and she runs her fingers along the warm white metal of her mechanized hand in thought. Half of his right leg is missing as well, supplemented with an odd peg-leg sort of structure instead of a prosthetic calf and foot, and Satya is left wondering exactly what sort of trouble had cost him not only one limb, but two.

As she peers out from the doorjamb, the colossus shifts to look in her direction with thick, folded arms. A black mask conceals the bulk of his face and any discerning features, and that somehow proves more unsettling than his immense size. Unlike his partner, he doesn’t seem to be missing any major limbs. That either credits his ability to avoid conflict or to annihilate it altogether.

Satya sucks in a breath and attempts to steel herself under what she can only interpret as an intimidating glare from the eyes behind the black mask. Prickles drop down the vertebrae of her spine in an uncomfortable twist and she resists the urge to slink back into the workshop. If these two are to be part of the regenerating Overwatch recall, she can’t afford to fear them. There is no need to let herself succumb to things like that. She is stronger than this.

And yet, when the wiry man notices his partner’s pointed gaze and glances over his shoulder, Satya retreats with her teeth sinking into her lip.


	2. Chapter 2

The second time Satya sees Junkrat, he’s taken up more than half of her space in the workshop.

Her schematics have been haphazardly thrown about and shoved off to the side. Different models of her hard-light turrets lie on the floor or crunched together against the back wall. The prototype base of her teleporter has been tucked into a far corner and various boxes are resting on top of it. Wires, casings, and bottles of what she can only assume are flammable compounds have spread over multiple table lengths and consumed her personal working space. Markers and blueprints and things that look suspiciously like _mines_ surround him, and a spiked ticking tire rests against the column closest to her.

This was her safe space, and he’s destroyed it.

Satya wants to scream.

“Real nice place you got,” says the man, swiveling about on her work stool. His blond hair is thick and wild with a sharp widow’s peak, the very ends fading out into a crisp charcoal. A good deal of him appears to has been… singed. Somehow. Is that ash? His face and shoulders have smudgework all over them. “Think I could get used to this. Clean floors, big halls, all the fancy tech work you could want. You lot make a bloody good bargain, y’know.”

“You moved my things,” says Satya, fists clenching. Her throat is tight and it takes a great deal of willpower not to construct a weapon to smash him over the head with. He had no right to just invite himself in and invade her space and destroy all of the order she had created. Now everything is strewn about and her projects are askew, and it’s all thanks to this sloppy and disheveled man. “You are _not_ welcome here. Who are you? Who let you in? Why are you here?”

“Oi, easy, easy, lady.” He holds up his hands in mock surrender, wrinkling his nose with disbelief. “Yeesh, didn’t think I was gonna be interrogated just for setting up shop. How am I supposed to do my job if I’ve got nowhere to work?”

Satya approaches him with purposeful steps and allows herself to craft a blade of hard light between her fingers. “You did not answer my questions.”

“Uh, name’s Junkrat.” His adam’s apple bobs in a swallow as he eyes the shimmering blue construct. “And your mate let me in. Short bloke. Big muscles, bigger beard. Claw arm. Ring any bells?”

“Torbjörn,” she groans through clenched teeth. With resignation, the blade winks out and dematerializes into nothing, and she is not happy about it.

“Yeah, that sounds right,” says Junkrat, leaning back against the table. His elbows rest upon the edge and his posture curves to accommodate. The harness he wears frames his neck and shoulders rather nicely, the central strap stretching across lean pectorals. “Something like that. Tor-burn. Said I could have a chunk of the place to myself for keeping up on stock. Gotta keep a good supply, right? Won’t be doing no jobs ‘less I got the proper stuff.”

“Stock?” Satya arches an eyebrow, now acutely aware of her surroundings and exactly how many finished casings are stowed about the tabletop. “What do you mean by ‘stock’?”

Junkrat smirks and shrugs a shoulder to the mess around him. “Yeah. You know, stock. The good stuff. Grenades, mines, explosives. You need something blown up, you won’t find no one better than me. Everything’s hand crafted. With love. And other components, of course.”

Cold realization sets in and something in her stomach starts to coil in on itself. “These are… are _live_ explosives?”

“Well, pff, yeah,” says Junkrat, plucking a round cherry-looking item from beside him between his thumb and forefinger. “How else am I gonna blast things to smithereens? Toss some empty shells at ‘em and hope they go running? Nah. You need some power packing behind it. Some real good explosions. Something that’ll make ‘em run like hell. Or die. Or both!”

“Gods.” Satya takes a step backward, her heel digging into the hard tile floor. Everything in this room is a real, ready-to-explode bomb, and she’s in here with the maniac that makes them. What sort of people have Winston and Tracer been looking for? “Why did Torbjörn let you in here? Why did the rest even let you into the compound? You’re—you’re _mad_.”

“All geniuses have a touch of madness, mate. Bet you’re a bit mad as well.” He taps his temple with a mechanical finger and tosses the little cherry upward with his other hand. Satya’s eyes lock onto it as it makes its ascent. “You are, ain’t you? Why else would you be in this little band of misfits and mercs? It’s sure as hell not ‘cause you’re bloody normal.”

There is a knot in Satya’s throat and there is a bomb being thrown into the air and there is an idiotic man with a need to prove himself in front of her and—

“Junkrat—!”

“Oh, calm it.” He snatches the cherry out from above between the same two fingers and holds it out for her to examine. “See? No harm to you. Perfectly safe. No explodey. ‘Sides,” he says with a wink, “this one’s not done.”

The urge to smash him across the face arises again. For her things, for her workspace, for this, for his obvious stupidity—any excuse will work. All she needs is to make it happen, but she resists. This man is already chaos incarnate; she doesn’t need to coax him further. “You. You let me believe that was going to go off.”

“Oh, did I now?”

Junkrat hops off the stool and rises to his full height. After a roll of his shoulders, he lopes forward with uneven steps. The scuff of his boot and the clink of metal to metal echo throughout the workshop. His grubby patchwork shorts sag to his pronounced hip bones in spite of his belt, shifting with his odd gait. Satya finds that she has to crane her neck in order to keep looking at his face. She doesn’t remember him being this tall. Why is he so tall?

“I don’t remember saying everything was ready to go pop. Some of it is, sure. Good bit of it. But not everything.” He scratches at his angular chin with a thumb, as if pondering. “Hm. Suppose I can see where you’d get that, though. It all looks finished to the untrained eye, yeah? Ah. Warms me heart. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was _not_ a compliment.” The distinct smell of gunpowder permeates from him and it makes her eyes water. Spinning around on the ball of her foot, Satya starts to leave the workshop, equal parts uncomfortable and irate. “And I’ll have you know, I am _not_ mad. I’m not the one playing with live explosives. I create things, not destroy them.”

“Is that right?” Junkrat laughs behind her as she passes the workshop’s threshold. “Keep telling yourself that. Gotta do some demolition work before putting up your lovely buildings!”

Satya covers her mouth, bites her tongue, and goes to find Winston.


	3. Chapter 3

“No, Winston. I will not stand for it. I won’t.” Satya stands before the great gorilla, fury threading through her veins. Her neck is stiff, her nails digging crescent moons into her palm. She can’t get the image of that smarmy singed junker or what happened to her workspace out of her head, and it only further fuels the fire alight between her ribs. “You can’t ask that of me. I’m not going to just ignore this. Do you know what he did to the workshop? Trashed it. His—his _things_ are everywhere and all of my work, my schematics, everything—”

Winston sighs in his chair and adjusts his glasses with a thick forefinger. “Symmetra.”

“How can you let that man in here?” she seethes, clutching at the ends of her coat. “How? I don’t understand. Help me understand why this is necessary and why this will help us build a better future. Tell me _something_ because I am going to go back in there and—”

“ _Symmetra_.” Winston’s voice is firm. He gazes at her from behind the lenses of his glasses and lets out a soft grunt. “I don’t like it, either. But we will need him. He’s not the most… pleasant person, I’ll admit. Neither is Roadhog. But we need them both. We will. Things are going to get bad, and I’d like to have as much expertise on our side as possible.”

Satya glares at him with as much distaste as she can muster. “Does expertise include storing dozens of highly dangerous explosives in house? In  _ my _ space?”

“We made some agreements.” Winston twists back to his monitors, studying whatever sorts of files he had been sifting through before she barged into his room. “We all have to make sacrifices. There is only so much space, and we plan on recruiting more to our cause. I am… uncomfortable with the idea of explosives just sitting around here, but he’s experienced with building and handling them. I will talk him into getting some secure cases for storage. That should alleviate that side of things.”

“I want my part of the workshop back.”

“Symmetra—”

“He usurped my area and discarded my things like they were nothing,” she says, tempering steel through her voice. “I am not going to stand here and let him do that. Either you do something, or I will.”

Winston’s shoulders slump. “All right. I will talk to Torbjörn, too. Since sacrifices are necessary, he can give up some of his portion for Junkrat. Everyone will share. And get along.”

“You are okay with this, then.” It isn’t a question, and Satya wants to make sure Winston knows exactly how much she disapproves. “You are okay with a maniac living here and constructing bombs in our halls and destroying things.”

Winston closes one of the open files with a tap of a finger. There is a long moment where he is silent, staring blankly at the flickering light of the monitors, and then turns back to her with concern furrowing his features.

“No, I’m not,” he murmurs, “but we don’t have much choice, do we?”


	4. Chapter 4

The next time Satya sees Junkrat, it’s three days later and they’re being shipped off to combat.

With slow-burning resentment smoldering in the bottoms of her lungs, she keeps her distance and busies herself checking the limits of the mechanics encasing her left arm. She catches brief glimpses of Junkrat and his wild shock of blond hair loitering amongst the group—which isn’t too difficult, considering his height—and when he and Roadhog draw too close, she situates herself so that the bodies of her teammates serve as buffers.

Junkrat saunters along behind Reinhardt and Torbjörn to board the dropship. Satya notices that he’s armed himself with a slew of explosives, no doubt the sort he’d been working on when she’d entered the workshop. Grenades strap to his harness and various canisters and packs hang by his hips and along his belt; he carries a makeshift-looking grenade launcher of some crude design in his mechanical arm, adorned in various places by thick marker to make smiley faces or other small doodles. Honestly, she’s not sure whether to be disgusted or impressed. Everything has clearly been crafted by him or at least designed in part, and she supposes that’s commendable in a sense, but her distaste for his disrespectful behavior eclipses any achievement rather well.

To her relief, the dropship is roomy enough and there is ample space to avoid him. She makes a point to sit as far away as physically possible, but it doesn’t prevent the pungent smell of gunpowder and scorched wiring or whatever odd amalgam of scents follow Roadhog. The belts keep them strapped in as Winston pilots the ship toward their destination, and Satya has never felt so suffocated. Dread fills her lungs and sticks to her vocal cords, and she swears she can feel Junkrat’s eyes on her when she’s not looking.

“What’s wrong, love?” asks Tracer, nudging Satya’s elbow. “You’ve got a long face. Been awful distant the past few days as well. Something the matter?”

“Just nervousness before the storm,” she replies, offering Tracer a wan smile. “I’m fine.”

Satya is not fine.

“Well,” says Tracer, popping down her orange-tinted goggles, “just so you know, we’re all here for you. We’re a team, right? All in this together. No need for the jitters! We’ve got this. And, of course, I’ll always have your back.”

“And I yours.” She just wishes Junkrat and his gigantic friend weren’t included.


	5. Chapter 5

The ship lands in a remote location in the desert by a lush oasis. During the debriefing prior to their departure from Gibraltar, Winston had explained that this mission’s purpose was to follow the trail of some unknown organization who had recently attempted to rob Overwatch of important data on its agents. Glancing out the ship’s window at the old ruins, Satya doubts they will find much here, but if this will steer things on course for fully putting an end to the lingering effects of the Omnic Crisis, then she will assist however she can.

The venture into the ruins is led by Reinhardt in his towering power armor, followed shortly by Tracer, Torbjörn, and the newly returned Mercy. Winston strides alongside Satya with Junkrat and Roadhog tailing as the rear guard. The passageways slope deeper as they trek on, and the further down they wander, the newer the walls become.

Pausing by one particular threshold, Satya runs her fingers across the wall’s surface. It’s smooth, black, cut very clean, like a thick marble but with the strength of metals and alloys. Nothing here should have such a texture, she thinks, and begins to work her hands to bring hard-light objects into the world. Every few feet, she conjures a turret along the walls or by doorways with sharp blue light melding into reality.

Once or twice, Satya catches Junkrat watching her while she works. There is no need for the group to slow down, but the time between his steps seems to drift further apart as geometric shapes twist and form between her fingertips. The sensation of him scrutinizing her every move coupled with the acrid scent of explosives churns uncomfortably within the circle of her ribs. Before she places the final one, she halts mid-step and pivots, giving him a pointed look through her visor.

“Is there something the matter?” she asks, the three-dimensional wiring of a triangle floating in her palm.

“Yeah,” he says. Grenade launcher resting over his shoulder and the spiked tire chained across his back, Junkrat draws close with a few loping steps. Shadows sculpt the shapes of his jaws and fill in the hollows beneath his eyes in the receding light from the group’s devices. “Yeah, there is.”

Satya had not been expecting that response. The knot of her heart spurs and she recognizes the rush of adrenaline pooling through her arms. As he closes in beside her, towering over her by a foot or more, her concentration falters and the shape begins to fracture. Pulling in a full breath, she straightens her spine and attempts to curb her discomfort, and within a moment, the brilliant blue wire frame has repaired itself.

Eyes wide, Junkrat focuses on the scintillating shape cupped within her hand. His brow beetles and he cocks his head to the side, as if changing perspective could somehow grant him a better understanding of her craft. When Roadhog passes by and grunts what she thinks might be a question, Junkrat only waves him onward with a flippant flick of his fingers.

Shifting his gaze to her, his mouth thins out into a perplexed line. “How d’you do that?”

“Do what?” Satya starts to follow the lumbering giant, keeping pace so as not to fall too far behind the rest of the group. She does not want to be stuck in the dark next to Junkrat. In truth, she would much rather sprint back up to Winston’s side, but wedged between the two imposing junkers in the column leading further into the ruins, there is a strange sense of entrapment.

“That.” Junkrat makes an exaggerated twirling motion with his left hand, then taps the center of his glove with his fingers. “All those things back there. What you did before. All that… dunno what to call it. Whatever it is. Glowy stuff. How’d you do it?”

“Through rigorous training and hardship,” she replies, a softer tone to her voice. She shuts her hand and the shape disappears into a flourish of light. “I was a student for many years. Not everyone can manipulate things as I do.”

In spite of his disregard for anything but Roadhog or explosives, Junkrat seems genuinely interested in her talents. After her time spent at the Academy, they have always been an extension of her; a limb, an inner function; she uses them as one would breathe, and without a second thought. It hasn’t occurred to her in a long time how creating constructs from seemly nothing might look to someone else.

Satya does not want to admit it, but the idea of someone admiring her abilities, however slight, feels… nice.

Junkrat scratches the side of his neck as he follows beside her. “Heard the others saying you was some sort of agent from another company. Some big company over ‘cross the world. They teach you that?”

“Yes.” Satya bristles at the mention of Vishkar, however unnamed. “They taught me everything. They will bring order to the world. Make it a better place.”

“Order?” Junkrat sniffs. “What d’you want that for? Waste.”

“You wouldn’t understand.” Satya conjures the last turret with gentle movements of her fingers and places it upon the wall. She admires its sleek architecture for a moment before stepping back toward the group. “Order will provide peace and harmony for everyone. We could achieve so much if we could clean up the world.”

“You’re bloody stupid if you believe that.”

Satya snaps a glare up at him. “What did you say?”

“I said you’re bloody stupid if you believe that. What, you hard of hearing?” Junkrat musses his hand through his hair and offers a shrug. “What good’s order gonna do? Keep everybody in line? Not gonna happen. Never. You know why? Order can’t exist without mayhem. Anarchy. Chaos. Whatever you wanna call it. There can’t be no order without it, you know.”

“You’re a simpleton,” says Satya through her teeth. 

“Ah, telling it like it is. There you go. I respect that.” Junkrat grins at her. In the dim light, she can see the sculpted shapes of sharp canines and the glint of what she thinks may be a golden tooth. “Really, though, it’s true. Politics and suits? Not my thing. Hate ‘em. Hate all of ‘em. I’d be bored to death if I was you. Glad I’m not. World order? Who cares? There’s always gonna be somebody causing mayhem somewhere, no matter how much order you wanna put in the world.”

Satya whips forward and increases her pace. Why did she bother to give him the time of day? After what he did to her part of the workshop, she should have been expecting this kind of bullheaded behavior. She really should have. But she saw his interest in her work—she  _ liked _ it—and now here he is insulting the very core of her beliefs.

He’s insufferable, she thinks. He’s insane. He’s mad and he’s rude and he’s ridiculous and there is no reason to keep the company of someone so willfully ignorant.

“Progress is  _ lost _ because of people like you,” she seethes, and strides ahead to join Winston and the others.


	6. Chapter 6

“Symmetra!”

Gunfire echoes down the passageways in deafening bursts. Shouts well up from deeper within the ruins and thrum through the film of her eardrums. Her team has taken battle formations, spreading out and assuming positions among the length of the opened chamber. If they weren’t under fire, she thinks, the elegant architecture and styled columnwork of the black metal-like stone would be a sight to behold. Engravings and intricate etchings line the walls; the room opens up into a vaulted cathedral ceiling; but she’s stuck against the back of a pillar with two turrets on guard and with no time to admire anything short of Tracer’s god-like aim.

“I’m here!” Satya funnels her concentration inward and bends sheafs of light between her fingers. Leaning out from her chosen cover, she flings them toward Reinhardt. The new shield takes shape around his body, melding down to slope over his encasing armor and cling to every nick, dent, and contour.

“Thank you!” he shouts, charging forth down the center of the chamber with clanging steps. His own shield has been raised, a barrier of energy sweeping in front of him with enough strength to absorb bullets, bombs, and battering rams. “Everyone, steel yourselves! We must push forward!”

Satya creates another well of shielding between her palms and tosses it toward Torbjörn’s nest far on the other side of the room. It catches his hand, climbs up the length of his arm, and stretches out to cover the rest of his body. She can’t hear him over the gunfire from where she stands, but he raises a clawed hand in gratitude. The next shield is bestowed to Mercy; she stands tucked away behind the safety of Reinhardt’s barrier with her brilliant Valkyrie armor, the telltale aurum light from her caduceus staff tending to Tracer’s injuries as she harrasses the black-clad operatives on the enemy lines. The hard-light sheaf melds to Mercy’s back and flourishes through the Valkyrie’s wings, glittering as it spreads.

To provide some cover fire for Winston and Roadhog, Satya tugs her photon projector out from the holster across her hip. With a tender twist, she conjures blots of ammunition with her left hand and pops it into the projector’s chamber. She begins to charge her shots with her finger against the trigger. When she emerges from behind the pillar to release, she spies the lanky form of Junkrat leaping past Reinhardt and Mercy.

What is he _doing_? she thinks, but there is no time for her mind to process it further; Junkrat hurls what looks like a mine with all of his might into a large cluster of soldiers by a thick column across the way, the muscles in his shoulders and down his back wringing taut as he pools his strength into the throw. The gunfire whips to him as he spins into a slide across the sleek flooring, bullets crunching into metal and flesh. He tugs something small out from a pack by his belt—she can’t quite make it out, what is it, what’s going on, why is he not staying behind Reinhardt like he should, _why is he openly risking his skin_ —and then she realizes exactly what’s about to happen.

“Have a nice day!” he crows, and smashes his thumb down on the detonator.

A wracking explosion sets off across the room. The world beneath her tremors and she slams her back against the pillar for support. Legs bowed and one hand pressed to the cold metal, the photon projector in her hand trembles and she finds herself wishing she were elsewhere, anywhere; why did they bring him on this mission, _why_ , he’s going to get everyone killed; he’s a menace, insanity, instability—and… and hurt?

Junkrat limps up beside her, an arm clutched across his belly. His mouth is pulled into a satisfied grin, but pain lingers at its edges. The soot down his temples and by his neck smear with trickling sweat, dripping down his harness and the muscle of his shoulders. The grenade launcher in his right hand clatters by his foot, the chained tire shortly following, and he huffs out a shaky breath.

“G’day,” he breathes, slumping to the floor in a slow slide. A soft growl wells out of his throat when he touches the ground. “All them’s pushing forward now, you know. Might wanna get up there if you want in on the good stuff.”

“You’re—”

“Yeah, I know. Not the first time.” He lifts his hand and inspects the damage. A hole punctures his right side, red running down from the entry wound. It’s begun to seep into his shorts and bleed through the patchwork. “Well, first time for this.”

“Why are you not with Mercy?” Satya kneels down beside him and sets her photon projector to her hip again. While she does not like Junkrat, she will not tolerate him dying to his own obstinance or stupidity. “She can heal you—that is the purpose of her weapon! Here, come, let’s get you to her. She’ll make you right. That will close in no time at all. Maybe we can save those disgusting trousers of yours if we’re quick enough.”

“Don’t think so,” says Junkrat, holding up a mechanical finger for pause. “I’m thinking we’re gonna have company real, real soon.”

Satya’s brow knits. “What do you mean?”

“Those little gizmos of yours are still up and about, yeah?” he asks, jerking his head toward one of the turrets perched up above on the wall.

“Well, yes,” she says, her lips thinning into a frown. “I don’t understand. What is your point?”

“Here.” With a strained grunt and one hand to his belly to staunch the bloodflow, he leans forward and pulls another detonator out of his various packs. Tucking it between his teeth, he then digs out a second mine and offers it to her. He spits out the detonator so that it lands in the crook of his arm, and he licks at his lower lip. “Do me a favor, love. Just a teensy one. Go pop this over there in that doorway. Doesn’t have to be anywhere special. The floor’ll do. It’s gonna go off ‘fore they see it.”

Satya’s fingers freeze before the mine. “We’re going to be ambushed.”

“Ding ding. But you knew that already, Missus Glowy Gizmo. That’s why you set up all those little things leading the way down here, ain’t it?”

“Miss,” she corrects, although she doesn’t know why.

“Miss, then.” Junkrat’s smirk does not go by unnoticed. He jiggles the mine at her as if she were a small pet in need of convincing. “Go on, now. Over by the door. Or I’ll go set it myself.”

“You’re in no shape to do such a thing,” she says, and accepts the mine with a degree of reluctance. It’s somewhat heavy in her hands, big enough to span her palms yet small enough to be innocuous. She has no doubt there is more than enough power packed into the device to mirror the explosion from earlier. As she rises to her feet and starts toward the entryway, there is a sliver of her that trembles with thrill.

“Good,” he says upon her return. “That’ll give ‘em something to think about.” Junkrat leans back and sinks his teeth into his lip. “Bloody hell, this hurts. Worth it, though. Blew a hole right through ‘em. You should’ve seen it! Beautiful. All them went charging in afterward. Ha. Bet Roadhog’ll give ‘em a gobful.”

Satya glares at him through her visor. She slips down by his side again and prods his belly with a finger. “How exactly was this worth it?”

“Ow, ow, oi, stop it,” he sputters, swatting her away with a hand. “I go outta me way to pop their defenses open for all your little mates, and this is the thanks I get?”

“Quiet.” Satya presses her fingers forcefully across his mouth. The warmth of his breath curls against her skin and she can feel his jaw clench from the movement of his chin. Something inside of her shivers, unspooling in the hollow of her chest, and she’s not sure she likes how it feels. “You are injured because of your own recklessness and because you were too stupid to follow Mercy and the rest to be healed. You will sit here and be quiet and let me help you, and then we will go to Mercy. Is that understood?”

Junkrat stares at her with an eerie stillness, his chest rising and falling with pained breaths. His eyes are a bizarre color, she notes; a brilliant shade of molten amber. It’s not something she’s seen before, and it strikes her as obvious design that such an odd man would have equally odd eyes. Her gaze flicks to his arms, one crossed about his stomach while the mechanized holds the detonator with ticking impatience. For as skinny as he is, he seems more lean muscle and sinew than much else.

He needs to eat more, she thinks—and she hates that that’s the first thing that comes to mind.

Satya pulls her hand back with a short huff. Since he seems to be obeying her request and staying silent, she spins her fingers together and sets to work. Beads of blue light shimmer between her palms and slowly begin to form the start of a photon shield. Gently, she brings it toward the wound in his side.

“Lift your hand,” she says.

Eyes wide, Junkrat does as he’s told.

Splaying her fingers out, she webs the hard-light over the puncture. It glimmers as it’s set into place, melding overtop of his skin and encasing everything within. It won’t hold for long, she knows, and it’s not a substitute for proper treatment, but it’s enough for now. It will stabilize his injury and it will get him to Mercy. That’s all that matters.

“Come. Let’s move.” Satya hooks her arms beneath his and attempts to help lift. “On your feet, Junkrat.”

With his free hand, he curls an arm around her to better distribute his weight. He sucks a sharp breath through his teeth and starts to rise. Her nose in the space by his collarbone, charred gunpowder and some sort of thick musk pull through her lungs. Something warm and damp streaks down her back from the pressure of his hand; Satya bites her tongue and tries not to think of blood on her clothes.

When he’s standing upright against the pillar, she scoops up his grenade launcher and presents it to him.

“Cheers,” he mutters, accepting it with a strained smile.

She glances to the spiked tire by his boot. “What about—?”

“Nah, leave it.” Junkrat starts to inch his way off the column on his own. “Can always build another one. Not like there’s a shortage of tires or anything.”

As they’re about to head off toward the direction of their teammates’ distant gunfire, Satya hears the distinct chug of heavy footsteps rumbling down the hallway behind them. There is no mistake: there are more soldiers.

“Junkrat,” she says. She reaches for her photon projector and her heart sets to hammering against the undersides of her ribs.

“Yeah, I got you.”

His thumb flips up the lid of the detonator and he flashes her a wicked grin.

“Let’s give the bloody bastards a big welcome bang.”


	7. Chapter 7

It’s three in the morning, and Satya can’t sleep.

The adrenaline will not cease. Her heart perpetually drums in rhythms she hasn’t felt in years. She remembers the explosion, the smoke, the acrid stench of powder, the slick sweat on his skin; she remembers the soot and the blood sticking to the small of her back in the form of a smeared handprint; she remembers his awed stare as she brought her hands by the hole in his belly. She remembers the sharp lines of his hipbones, the hard muscle sculpting up his abdomen, the heaving of his ribcage, the grenades hitched to his harness. She remembers the red as it trickled down and soaked his hand, the stickiness on the pads of her fingers, the dried and flaking sanguine atop her robin’s egg nail polish. She remembers the screams of the soldiers caught in the blast; she remembers the rumbling din as it thrummed through her body and pulled down beneath her bones.

She remembers all of it. Every last excruciating detail. And she wants it to stop.

Kneading her temples with her hand, Satya climbs out of bed and tucks into a pair of slippers. There is no use in trying to force sleep, she decides. She’ll be better off keeping busy and exhausting herself through other means—work, exercise, meditation, whatever she can manage. Maybe then tiredness will come, and she might be able to forget about Junkrat for a while. Insomnia wouldn’t be nearly as bad if the vivid images of him would just leave her be.

Slinking on tiptoes so as not to wake Mercy, she slips out of the barracks and begins to roam the old Overwatch outpost with mussed hair and loose nightclothes. The chrome halls are dim, she notes; all but a few remaining lights have winked out. Everyone else has long since retired, thoroughly taxed from the day’s events and the celebratory post-op dinner prepared by Torbjörn, and Satya envies them. Sleeping peacefully after a successful mission is something she’s missed.

And the mission _had_ been a success, at least according to Winston. As far as he’s concerned, their efforts sabotaged whatever operations were taking place underneath the ruins. And as an added bonus, they extracted additional data that should lead them to other operative locations. In spite of the messy execution, everything went rather well, and the future for restoring Overwatch seems somewhat brighter for it. And, she hopes, the world’s future as well.

Satya makes her way down to the darkened workshop. After entering in the keycode with weary fingers, she drifts inside and stares at the mess under the faint emergency lights. Junkrat’s various explosives and compound materials still engulf most of her work area, to her dismay, and she doesn’t know why she expected any different. The incredible urge to shove all of his things into a corner so she can reorganize crosses the forefront her mind, but the chance of accidentally triggering an explosion (and then a very possible and very, very bad chain reaction of explosions) deters her from touching anything.

With a lamenting sigh, she leaves the workshop behind her in the dark.


	8. Chapter 8

Satya’s nighttime wanderings lead her to the makeshift infirmary.

After returning from the mission, Mercy made it quite clear that Junkrat was to stay overnight for monitoring. A bullet or two had to be extracted after all, and even after the expert mending her staff provided, she had insisted that rest would be the best medicine. He’d attempted to protest, but all went by unheeded.

“Your abdominal wall was recently torn, Junkrat,” she’d intoned, pushing him back into the infirmary’s bed with a firm hand. “Recovery may seem instant, but it’s not. Sleep.”

And so he sleeps.

Satya finds his lanky form sprawled out over atop the crisp sheets to the right side of the infirmary, his breathing soft and slow. From her place at the entryway, he seems to be doing well, and she supposes that’s a relief—the stare he’d given her when she brought the shield against his wound had been enough to web chills through her marrow; certainly enough to keep her up at night. As much as she dislikes Junkrat, she does not want to see him die.

A few moments tick by, and her eyes become more acclimated to the dimness of the infirmary. There is only one source of light, another emergency bulb glowing from the left side of the room; too-white, almost-blue, somewhat faint, offering an ethereal sort of radiance. There are several tools and miscellaneous medical gadgets she’s unfamiliar with scattered around the area, lying about on various countertops and tables. A few beds with metal headboards line the right wall, each swathed in monochrome covers. A sink and toilet are tucked into the left corner, a thick curtain sweeping halfway across for privacy. Not nearly as glamorous as a hospital, she thinks, but it’s sufficient. Mercy works wonders.

Satya glances over to Junkrat. In the cool dark, she’s able to discern the outline of an IV and a bag of fluid tethered to where he sleeps. When she notices his crude prosthetics laid carefully at the foot of the bed, she squints and draws closer, intrigued at where and how his amputations had left him. She approaches his bedside with gentle steps, the periwinkle slippers muffling most of her footfalls. His wild mess of hair splays across the pillow, accentuating his widow’s peak, and she can’t tell whether it’s her eyesight or the lack of light, but it seems as though the soot from his face and shoulders has disappeared. Mercy’s work, she supposes, if anything; Junkrat somehow seems content to steep in his explosives’ residue, and she doubts he would wash it off on his own accord.

A small part of her begins to wonder how he might look after a thorough shower, but she stamps the image out before it can flourish. She doesn’t need further nightmare fuel.

When she’s within a foot’s length of the bed, she realizes that Junkrat’s trousers have been disposed of. Where Mercy put them, she’s not sure, but they are definitely not on his body. Instead, he’s clad in a pair of plain white undershorts that hug his hips and reach a few inches down his thighs. Satya concludes they must be a pair Mercy had stowed away somewhere for such a purpose; there is no chance something white would stay so pristine on Junkrat’s person.

Peering down at his body, she finds that his right arm ends an inch or two past the elbow, and his leg ends abruptly before the knee. She is not a doctor by any means, but they seem to have been clean cuts. The flesh at the ends of the stumps seems more pinched and puckered than she’d imagined, though. Did he have to do the work himself, she wonders, or was it Roadhog? Or perhaps someone else altogether? Did the Outback even have proper doctors?

“Oi,” says a soft voice. “What you doing here?”

Something wedges itself in Satya’s throat. Her heart twists between the bellows of her lungs, and she finds it difficult to swallow. Junkrat stares up at her from his place on the bed, half smirking in the dark. He lifts his hand and wiggles his fingers in a little wave.

“Insomnia,” she replies. She decides to exclude the incessant thoughts of him imprinting on the underside of her skull.

“Ah, too much excitement for one day? Don’t blame you. Can’t keep meself still when there’s work to do.” He strains out a crick in his neck with his palm, turning his chin to the side with a quick twist: _pop-pop-pop_. “Haah. There we go. You know, I really don’t know why your mate made me stay here. For a short while, yeah, all right, s’fine, but the whole night? Monitoring. Pff. She ain’t even here! Being bound to a bed for hours on end by Ol’ Angel Wings’s made everything so _stiff_.”

He’s not wrong, she supposes, but Satya bites the inside of her lip and avoids looking southward.

“So,” he says, eyeing the IV attached to his hand, “can’t sleep, then. Why’d you end up all the way down here? This place’s got plenty of other rooms, you know. Could’ve just kept walking. Seems suspect.”

“You were injured.” Satya forces down a swallow. Rubbing her knuckles with the metal fingers of her left hand, she draws an intake of air and settles her focus on his face; the shapes of his cheekbones, the slope of his jaws, the angle of his chin. The image of him clutching at his stomach floods back behind her eyes; her fingers quiver as the acrid smell of chemicals ghosts by. “Dying at the ruins.”

Junkrat arches an eyebrow. “Right. Well, I didn’t die. Wouldn’t be here if I did. Might be news to you, but you actually helped with the whole not dying bit.” He shifts in the bed, propping himself up on the pillows so he can see her better. “‘Preciate that, by the way. Awful nice of you. Your glowy stuff felt right weird, though.”

“And yet you seem proud of what happened, even though I helped with that ‘whole not dying bit.’ That kind of behavior is going to kill you.” Satya folds her arms, attempting to draw up a stoic front to mollify her racing heartbeat. “Are you always so brash?”

“Well, yeah. ‘Course. Worked out so far, hasn’t it?” He shrugs, tugging up the sheets over his full leg. “Stole my way out of Australia, found me best mate, traveled the world, did some jobs, blew things up, got some cash. Now I’m here with you lot. Far as I’m concerned, we made it good.”

“But you lost half an arm and a leg in the process,” says Satya.

“Ah, really, what’s an arm or two?” He rolls what’s left of his other arm around in a circle for emphasis. “I think the replacement’s almost better than the real one, to be honest. Don’t hurt when something smashes it. Or when you’re doing the smashing. Bad side, repairs are a bloody pain. D’you know just how hard it is trying to fix something like that with only one hand? Oh, it’s hell. Dropping shit, knocking everything over, losing screws under the bloody table, accidentally hitting some detonator and _kaboom_ , there goes half your flat. Always got Roadhog to lend a hand since I’m lacking a proper one.”

Junkrat laughs, and Satya can’t fathom why. She doesn’t understand why he thinks his own hardships are funny. Is it a coping mechanism? Is there an absence of sympathy for himself? Or perhaps he’s really as mad as she said he was? Launching himself right into the enemy’s line of fire should have been proof enough.

“‘Nother bad side,” he continues, “you only got one hand to feel with. Get used to it after a while, ‘course, but it was like hell getting used to.” He flexes his left, stretching his fingers out (as much as the IV allows) and then curling them into a fist. “Wouldn’t recommend it. ‘Specially with the leg. Word of advice, love: don’t go losing legs.” He lifts that as well, showing off his thigh as it tapers into a stump just before the knee. She tries her best to only glance.

“I will keep that in mind should I face the choice of an amputation.” Satya shuffles her slippers over toward his prosthetics. She bends down and retrieves the arm, holding it up between her hands. She can’t quite see all of the intricate details without ample light, but the design itself is rather solid overall, if not a bit rudimentary. “You have such odd choices in replacements. They seem so… ungainly. Impractical.”

“Oi, was just what I had then,” says Junkrat. His voice slopes into a lower octave, implying he’s taken offense that she would even question the quality of his work. Satya catches a thin frown out of the corner of her eye as she returns the prosthetic, and it somehow soothes her that she can get under his skin as he gets under hers. “Can’t go making fancy arms and legs with hunks of scrap metal and spare parts. I reckon I’d like to see you give that a go.”

“Do you truly wish to challenge me?” With a gentle turn of her hand, a simple geometric wireframe materializes in her left palm, floating just above the white metal. Satya finds herself smiling, pleased, pulling the shape into something more complex with added turns of her fingers. More points flicker into existence, adding more edges and sides with every spin. “I can create anything. Even arms and legs, should I choose.”

Junkrat seems stunned. The light from her conjuration pools soft blue across his face and illuminates his hair, painting shadows down his neck and by his collarbone. In the cool light, it becomes more apparent that Mercy must have struck; the soot and grime by his hairline, his temples, his cheeks has all been scrubbed away, and while they are rather faint, she can discern the sparse marks of freckles stippled about his skin. Junkrat blinks, his mouth half open, and then starts to reach out with his left hand.

“Dunno how you do this,” he mutters, eyebrows knitting. “Never seen nothing like it. Just… stuff popping in outta nowhere.”

“I am an architech,” says Satya, drawing the wireframe apart. It extends outward between her palms, stretching, and eventually takes on the crude shape of a hand. She will need to sketch out a proper schematic and visualize all of the finer details in order to fully create something so complex, but it’s not bad for something on the fly. “This is what I do.”

“Symmetra, right?” he asks, index finger drawing close to the floating hand. “That’s what they said your name was.”

“Yes,” says Satya. “Though not my true name. ‘Symmetra’ was a moniker given to me by Vishkar.”

“Ah, and that’s that company, right?” Junkrat tentatively touches the wireframe. It ripples, light bending under the pressure of the pad of his finger. He glances up at her from the bed. “You still with them suits, then?”

Satya finds herself bristling; her spine straightens and she tightens her posture. “Not exactly,” she says, pulling the construct away. She performs a wringing motion, and the beads of light collapse into a falling star before dissipating with a white burst of brilliance. “It’s a far more complicated relationship than that. And none of your business to be nosing in, I might add.”

“I’ll put my nose where I please,” says Junkrat, brushing it with his thumb. “But you ain’t working for ‘em anymore, right?”

“No,” she manages. With a short sigh, she clasps her hands together and stares at him with a degree of sharpness. “No, I do not work for Vishkar as of right now. My primary focus is the restoration of this group. I am here because I want a better future for the world, and I believe that can be accomplished by these people.” She eyes his belly and gestures to where the wound once was. Not even a scar remains, thanks to Mercy. “Although, I don’t know if the same can be said of you and your rash behavior.”

“Yeah? All right then, just ask those dead blokes. ‘Case you missed ‘em, there’s a whole pile under that sandpit. Go give ‘em a kiss for me.” He scratches at his lower belly, disturbing the trail of light hairs that disappear beneath the white fabric of his undershorts. “I ain’t here for world order, neither. Big gorilla bloke promised some good terms for our help, I asked if blowing shit up was part of the deal, he said ‘yeah,’ we said ‘yeah,’ now we’re helping.”

“And now you’re in an infirmary,” says Satya. “I see a connection.”

“You’re really harping on this.” Junkrat rolls his shoulders as he sprawls out into a full body stretch. Satya stares pointedly at his neck, heat rising in her face, and she wishes he would pull the sheets over the rest of him. “Already got Roadhog on my arse for doing what I did, all right? Don’t need World Order Lady trying to tell me what to do with my life or my bombs. Oh, and a little reminder, right—” He jabs a finger in her direction, the nail charred black, “—my bombs saved your pretty head even if you did save mine with your glowy hand tricks, so ‘s’not like I’m some stupid wanker who don’t know what he’s doing.”

Satya doesn’t know what to say to that. It is true, more or less; if Junkrat hadn’t followed her intuition back at the ruins, things could have gone very badly. They might have had casualties instead of sparse and treatable injuries, or something far worse—imprisonment, interrogation, execution, and who knows what else. The destruction of their ambush was a crucial turning point, she’ll admit. There’s a silver lining to everything.

And then, backtracking: pretty?

What?

“That—that does not excuse barreling past Reinhardt and putting yourself in direct danger.” Satya mimics his jabbing gesture in the center of his chest, shoving the thought out of her mind. “You aren’t two madmen roaming the Outback any longer. You aren’t just Junkrat and Roadhog. You are part of a team. You must work _with_ the team. If we are to be a cohesive unit, we must act and plan together, not go running off into the middle of enemy fire to pull stupid stunts. Is that understood?”

Junkrat makes a huffing noise in his throat. “If it’ll get you off my back, then yeah, all right, fine, I’ll be a good boy and hide behind the big burly bloke with the shield. No promises, though. Bombs do what they want. Can’t help it if some grenades need to be lobbed over ‘cross the way to take care of a few nuisances.”

Satya exhales and rubs at her temples with exasperated fingers. It was a mistake coming here, she realizes. She doesn’t know why her curiosity got the best of her, and she doesn’t know why she followed it here. She doesn’t know why he’s so _difficult_ and she doesn’t know why she can’t seem to get away from him. All she knows is that he’s thickheaded, stubborn; he’s walking chaos with nice shoulders and lean hips and singed hair and a passion for explosives that could eclipse the bloody sun.

Exhaustion tugging at her eyelids, Satya decides that enough is enough for one night. She runs a hand through her thick hair and starts toward the infirmary door with steady steps, her slippers shuffling against the cold flooring. She knows he’s watching as she leaves; the webbing shivers crawl up the length of her spine and curl about her neck, spindling down and taking root.

Satya pauses at the threshold and glances over her shoulder. Junkrat is sitting up, hunched over, his good arm resting across his thighs. His countenance seems distant, yet a faint grin curves the edge of his mouth. He moves his fingers in a slight wave.

“Goodnight, Junkrat,” says Satya.

“G’night,” he replies.

She leaves him in the infirmary, just as drained and restless as she’d arrived.


	9. Chapter 9

The next time Satya sees Junkrat, it’s a few days later when sunset bleeds on the horizon.

In her calm pathing around the buildings, she finds him perched out toward the grassy edge of the outpost, overlooking the ocean below. He has his trousers again, and supplies of various sorts scatter about his body. Palm-sized bottles, coils of wiring, bits and bobs of metal, a particularly large tire, something that looks like the gutted innards of a vehicle, and bundles of tools she doesn’t quite recognize cluster by his legs and circle his back. The gentle crash of the waves does little to obscure his heated ramblings; things like “C’mon you heap of scrap,” and “No, that’s not right, damn it,” and “That is _not_ what I bloody told you to do” echo among the facility’s towering walls.

Satya remains perplexed until she remembers the spiked tire he left beneath the ruins. He must be rebuilding, she thinks, although she doesn’t know why he would choose a secluded space outside of the main building to pursue his endeavors. He overtook half the workshop with his mess; why not build there?

“Ah, there we go,” he says, straightening himself in triumph. His shoulder blades pop and the muscles in his back tighten as he spools himself into a stretch, lifting his arms up above his head. The sinking sunlight paints his skin hues of orange, etching shadows down his body. “That’s more like it. ‘Bout time you decided to start cooperating. Finally getting somewhere now.”

The sensible logic in her states that she should leave. There is no reason for her to be here spying on the bomb-loving loose cannon and his slew of insanity. She will gain nothing from this. And yet, when she goes to turn and slink back the way she came, she finds that her legs can no longer perform their intended function. She is rooted in place, calves transmuted to stone, thin hands pressed to the cool metal of the outer walls. With a knot in the thick of her throat, she remains tucked against the side of the building, just out of sight, watching him work.

Junkrat’s movements are twitchy and haphazard, but they hold their own unique rhythm. He chooses tools by touch, ghosting his fingers over the items nestled in the grass to keep his focus on the project in front of him. He snags what he’s looking for between his thumb and forefinger, holds it in the crook of his neck or between his teeth until needed, and then plucks it up again for use. He tends to hunch when he’s invested, she finds; the waning light slopes down the plane of his back in a pleasing way.  

As the sky begins to bruise with dark purples and navy blues, it occurs to her that this is what he must do in his downtime. She knows he makes explosives, there is no questioning that, but he seems to keep an almost never ending supply. It would make sense if he channeled all of his spare energy into measuring, designing, and creating his devices. He'd said he crafted them with love, after all.

Twenty minutes slip by before heavy footfalls disrupt Satya’s eavesdropping. Her pulse in her neck, she spins around to see Roadhog a few yards away, treading his way toward Junkrat from the primary building. The giant man turns his head to her as he passes, hook chain jingling; the black mask’s vacant eyes harpoon an ill feeling behind her breastbone, sinking its tendrils through her veins.

“Oi, there you are,” says Junkrat, waving his friend over with a beckoning hand. “Where the hell’d you go, mate? Was just a screwdriver! Not like I asked for anything complicated. What took you so long? Stop by the kitchen or something? You know, if you got grub on you, you better be giving me some.”

After reaching into a pack on his belt and providing the apparently requested screwdriver, Roadhog shifts his posture, mask pointed in her direction. He can see her, she knows, and her stomach coils in uncomfortable turns as he stares from the grassy outcrop. His presence exudes power, and the giant shotgun holstered across his back does nothing to diminish it. That man could tear her asunder.

She never should have stayed, she thinks. She should have _listened_ to herself and left the moment she came across Junkrat and his pile of scraps. She should’ve just gone about her business and finished her walk, but she didn’t, she _didn’t_ , and she doesn’t know why.

The cement in her legs loosens. With Roadhog’s eyes on her, she pulls backward and retreats into the cover provided by the building’s face. Step by step, she starts to move again, pushing herself as far as she can from Junkrat and his colossal bodyguard.

There is nothing good about those men, she tells herself. She doesn’t need to interact with them in anything other than a professional setting. There is no reason to force a relationship with those she cannot trust—damn Winston’s ‘everybody get along’ mentality. With one likely to blow up the whole complex and the other to turn face and do who knows what, she should not be obligated to give either of them the time of day.

Satya clenches her fists, suffocating under the adrenaline. The urge to look behind her surfaces, but she resists.

There is nothing good about those men. There isn’t.

_My bombs saved your pretty head—_

There can’t be.

_Symmetra, right?_

There can’t.


	10. Chapter 10

Athena calls for everyone to report to the mess hall in Winston’s stead.

Two new visitors have paid the outpost a visit, neither of which Satya recognizes. The first, a tall and imposing figure, is harnessed in a sleek white-green ensemble of full body armor, a pair of impressive swords sheathed across his back. The second is a spindly Omnic of the older generations, clad in shabby yellow robes—a monk, she realizes, from the golden prayer orbs about his neck—with a gentle demeanor and calm voice. Winston insists the former was once a member of Overwatch and is here to respond to the recall; the Omnic, on the other hand, served as the man’s master during training, and had decided to accompany him on his journey to the outpost.

That decision would prove to be a mistake.

Mercy is the first of the team to report to the mess hall. She meanders in among the tables, thin glasses framing her angular face and a stained lab coat cloaked about her body. Her damp hairline and rolled sleeves suggest she paused in the middle of one of her projects, but upon seeing the armored man standing in the center of the room, she breaks into a run and promptly crushes him in an embrace.

“ _Genji_ ,” she says, her hands sliding up to cup the jaws of his armor, “oh, I haven’t seen you in ages! How have you been? How is everything holding up? Do you need anything tweaked?”

“It is good to see you again.” Genji gives her a light squeeze around the waist before releasing her. The green of his visor glows with a fierce brightness, which Satya can only interpret as a form of grin. “I am well. Far better than I was. Things have changed, but I believe it has been for the best.”

Genji steps aside, armored greaves clicking across the floor, and waves the Omnic forward. While Omnics tend to be seen as menacing constructs of destruction, this one’s model appears to be even older than Satya had originally thought. Rust eats at choice edges of his face and the nine-point etchings on his forehead; coupled with a visible mesh of internal mechanics and architecture, it offers a somewhat dilapidated appearance.

“Angela,” says Genji, his voice slow and reverent, “I present to you my master, Zenyatta. It is thanks to him that I have recovered.”

Pivoting on her foot, Mercy gives the Omnic monk a light bow. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“And I you.” Zenyatta clasps his hands together and dips low, his mechanical joints moving with a surprising dexterity. “Genji has told me much.”

“You have met Symmetra already, yes?” Mercy maneuvers past Winston and strides over to Satya’s side, placing a cool hand upon the sleeve of her blue blouse. “Winston recruited her just recently before I arrived. She has agreed to join our cause with her invaluable talents.”

“Not formally.” Zenyatta pads over in simple wooden sandals, the prayer orbs gliding in sync with the rest of his metallic body. The harsh overhead lights grant his skull a brilliant silver sheen as he performs another bow before her. “Peace be with you.”

“And with you,” replies Satya, mimicking the gesture as best she can. She finds it odd that an Omnic would be welcomed without suspicion—a decent chunk of the world’s populace still holds deep resentment for them, after all—but unlike others, Overwatch worked with Omnics prior to its disbandment. Its old members wouldn’t hold such prejudices, so she supposes their demeanor toward new Omnic members isn’t that unusual. “I look forward to working with you.”

“Oi, the bloody hell’s that bucket of bolts doing here?”

Oh, no.

Stomach knotting, Satya twists to see the wiry form of Junkrat loping into the mess hall with Roadhog’s hulking body treading close behind. A sharp glare carves through the features of Junkrat’s face; his nose is wrinkled, eyes narrowed, teeth clenched and bared. He takes a few steps forward, the rhythmic _stomp-click_ resounding through the room, and plants himself squarely across from the rest of the group.

“That _thing_ s’not part of the deal, mate.” Junkrat extends an accusing finger in Zenyatta’s direction, but keeps a firm focus on Winston. “You never said we was gonna be working with bloody Omnics. What you trying to pull?”

“There is nothing to pull, Junkrat. We will not deliberately turn away help. We can’t afford to in this state.” Winston breathes a sigh and rubs at his forehead. “There is no reason to be angry here. Please, calm down.”

“No reason? You’re serious? No reason, he says. No bloody reason.” Junkrat straightens his posture, drawing up to his full height, and makes a low snarl in the back of his throat. “Nah, mate. Them things can’t be trusted. They spit rubbish excuses at you, make you think they’re nice little robots now, but they’re still the same death dealing piles of scrap they was before.” With his left hand, he pulls a cherry bomb out of a pouch hitched to his belt. “Bet you that piece of junk’s gonna—”

The thrum of footsteps punctures through the air. Junkrat isn’t given any time to finish his tirade; in a whisk of glowing green, Genji clears the room in a single sweep and slams Junkrat against the wall by his throat.

“You will _not_ speak of my master that way.” His other arm whips to lock Junkrat’s hand in place, freeing the cherry from his calloused fingers. It pops onto the floor and rolls away beneath a nearby table before exploding with a punctuated _bang_. “Do you understand? You will show him respect. Apologize!”

Junkrat thrashes about in Genji’s grip, clawing at the hand against his neck. He chokes, gasping to breathe through a crushed windpipe, his mechanical fingers clasped on his aggressor’s forearm in hopes of prying him off. Satya watches as his eyes frantically flick back and forth between herself, Roadhog, and Winston, and she finds her hands hooking together to prepare a construct.

“Genji,” shouts Zenyatta, cupping a prayer orb above his palm, “calm yourself!”

Light collects between her fingers. Mind racing, she spins the geometry into a blade.

A hook swipes its way across the room. Genji is yanked away from the wall, Junkrat still gripped by the throat, and brought spine-first into a collision with Roadhog’s tattooed belly. Before Genji has a chance to recover, Roadhog places a thick hand over his armored helm and begins to crush it in a vice.

“Let—” tighter, “—him—” tighter, “— _GO_.”

Gods, thinks Satya; she is going to witness a murder tonight.

“Stop this!” Mercy rushes toward Roadhog and tries to latch onto his hand. She tugs and pulls, but nothing budges. “The both of you, please, stop!”

“LET GO,” Roadhog grinds through his mask. His other hand grapples about Genji’s arm, constricting and crunching inward to win Junkrat’s freedom through brute force alone, but Genji maintains his hold.

As Satya dashes forward with the hard-light in her hands, she realizes that Junkrat’s consciousness is slipping. His eyes are shut, his mouth half open in a strangled shout, and his arms have dropped away from his throat to hang limply at his sides. She can’t tell if he’s breathing; there is too much commotion among Genji and Roadhog to see.

“Stop!” says Satya, and tries to pry Genji’s fingers off of Junkrat’s neck. Heart thumping between her lungs, she bends the blade into a hook around his hand, curls it backward to gain leverage, and wrenches it as hard as she can.

“ _ENOUGH_.”

Winston slams his fists against the floor and howls. The entire room quakes under the pressure; chairs become displaced and all of the tables shift several inches to the right. The scuffle comes to an abrupt halt, and Mercy, Roadhog, Genji, and Satya all take pause.

“I will not tolerate this.” Winston leaps toward them, the weight of his body sending various chairs clattering to the side. He releases a rough exhale through his nose and brings a giant hand across Roadhog’s. “Let him go,” he says. “Now.”

A moment passes before Roadhog complies. Slowly, he releases the hold on Genji’s head and arm. Grunting through his mask, he coils his fingers into fists and waits. His heavy breathing dominates the thick silence of the mess hall. Genji decompresses with a deep breath; his shoulders dip and he utters something heated in another language before freeing his captive.

Junkrat sucks in an inhale and slumps to the floor in a sputtering heap. His hands clutch at his neck, now a brilliant and flushed red, rubbing at tendons and the knot of his adam’s apple. His chest heaves as he succumbs to a nasty coughing fit. Roadhog kneels beside him and observes the Omnic across the room with a fierce quiet.

“Genji.” Zenyatta’s voice is solemn and stern. The prayer orb in his palm twirls in a golden light and floats toward his apprentice with haste. “That was not a wise choice. We are no longer at the monastery. There are consequences here.”

Genji says nothing. He strides to Zenyatta and takes his place at his side, gripping at his injured arm as the orb glides around his body. Satya thinks she can see a crack in his visor, but she can’t be sure. If Roadhog’s strength damaged part of his arm, she’s not sure she wants to know what might have happened to his skull.

Seeming somewhat recovered, Junkrat groans and curls himself into a sit. He ignores Mercy’s barrage of medical questions and swats her away with a sharp elbow. With his left hand massaging his throat, Satya notices him reaching out and swiping something off of the floor with his prosthetic. After giving it a once over among the orange metal of his fingers, he taps her on the back of her leg with his boot.

“Oi,” he says, husky and raw, “this yours?”

Puzzled, Satya leans down to inspect his find. In his extended hand rests the hard-light blade she’d conjured. Its architecture is sleek, a blend of white and blue, and bent at a strange angle to accommodate the curve of Genji’s hand.

Junkrat stares up at her, expectant, the vivid color of his eyes a gentle burn. His blond hair is tousled from the fight, soot smudged about his temples, and his breathing seems jagged and labored as his lungs gather up missed oxygen. There is no other source that could have created such an item, she knows, and there is a constricting feeling nesting below her heart that says he knows, too.

Heartbeats hammer in the film of her ears as she rises to her feet.

Yes, she thinks.

“No,” she lies.


	11. Chapter 11

The following morning, a dark bruise adorns the expanse of Junkrat’s throat.

Satya watches as he sits with Roadhog across the mess hall, tearing his teeth through thick slices of toast and jam. Every now and then, he rubs at the column of his neck with tentative fingers as if hoping it might assist in the healing process, but each time he touches the bruise, he clenches his jaws and his expression melts into a grimace. There won’t be any instant recoveries this time; he turned Mercy away, seeming content to suffer through his self-induced injury, and she has no idea why. Stubborn, perhaps, or a strange sense of pride. She won’t pretend to understand his motives.

Thankfully, the two new visitors are absent. Since the incident from last night, both Zenyatta and Genji have made themselves scarce. When arriving for breakfast, she half-expected there to be another tussle among the tables, this time with Junkrat packing bigger heat than a cherry bomb and hurling a mine across the room with cackling laughter. However, the mess hall remains bereft of Genji and Zenyatta’s presence, which she supposes is for the best.

Chewing on a chunk of Torbjörn’s homemade bread, Satya wonders if they will eventually turn up. While Zenyatta has no need of sustenance, Genji still does—she assumes there’s a man underneath the armor somewhere. She doesn’t know where Mercy made their accommodations, either. They must have separate areas away from the general barracks that Reinhardt, Torbjörn, Junkrat, and Roadhog share. If they hadn’t, she’s sure the outpost would have been reduced to a black smear of charred wreckage this morning.

Junkrat lopes past her sitting spot with his usual gait. He sips on some sort of liquid from a canteen he’s plucked from his belt—it’s not even _noon_ , she thinks—the bruise very clear and purple as he knocks back a deep swig and heads toward the kitchen. She notes the faded bloodstain on the right side of his trousers, the stitched patches on its legs, his sharp hip bones, and the tiny pouches clipped all about his hips, housing hazardous compounds or more cherry bombs or who knows what. His hair is a thick bed head nest and gray smudgework cloaks the muscle of his shoulders and streaks through his hairline.

Gods, he’s a right mess.

Satya continues her breakfast, nibbling more of Torbjörn’s bread and slicing off pieces of the omelette he’d made with the side of her fork. When she glances up from her plate, she realizes Roadhog is staring at her from across the length of the room, his massive arms resting upon the tabletop. There are only two other people here, both of which are currently in the kitchen, and she has a knotting feeling behind her sternum that neither of them have drawn up behind her.

She takes a sip from her orange juice and returns her focus to the table. The vivid image of Roadhog attempting to crush Genji’s skull like an overly ripe melon ghosts behind her eyes, and she finds herself forcing a swallow to get the omelette down. There is no situation in which she wants to be alone with Roadhog, no less one where he is angry. Come to think of it, she’s never heard him say a word until Junkrat was in danger of being suffocated. She hadn’t even seen him unsheathe his hook to grapple Genji closer.

Sneaking a glance upward, Satya notes that Roadhog hasn’t moved. His black mask remains poised in her direction, his arms still upon the table, his breathing a rhythmic purr against the walls. One of his hands is tapping, she realizes. A heavy thumb beats against the surface of the tabletop in a cadence she hasn’t heard before.

Well, she thinks, at least he’s committed to performing his duty as a bodyguard.

A few minutes pass, and then Satya hears the familiar _scuff-clink_ of Junkrat’s footsteps behind her at last. He saunters by again, this time with a plate of freshly made eggs from the kitchen in one hand. He must have been able to sweet talk Torbjörn into another round, although she can’t fathom how; his charm and hygiene could use some serious work before he goes about persuading anyone.

As he passes her table, he grins at her and wiggles his prosthetic fingers at her in a jovial wave. She’s about to return it, but when she realizes what’s hooked on the back of his belt, Satya almost chokes on her fork.

In a small, makeshift holster, cut from scraps of what looks to be old leather, an azure hilt presses against the skin of his lower back. There absolutely is no mistaking the design— _her_ design—because nothing else could possibly reproduce such an amalgam of color and shape.

Junkrat kept it. She can’t believe it. He actually kept the damn thing. And he’s being _smug_ about it.

Satya stares as he walks away, dumbstruck. The blade is no longer bent as it was; someone or something must have hammered it back into its original shape. She has no idea how. Hard-light structures can be destroyed after being created, but manipulated into another form by someone other than herself? She doesn’t think a blade of hard-light would hold the same properties as one made out of steel or any other metal. Or perhaps it does?

She doesn’t know. Weaponsmithing isn’t exactly her specialty.

Tipping back the glass, Satya drains the rest of the orange juice in one gulp.

It isn’t her specialty, no.

But it _is_ Torbjörn’s.


	12. Chapter 12

“A dagger? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Out of his usual work ensemble, Torbjörn hammers on components for one of his turrets on his end of the workshop, throwing the brunt of his strength into each strike. His ample blond beard sways under the duress of his movement and sweat greases the length of his brow. Various tools and blueprints cluster amongst the tables behind him, misshapen pieces of metal collected by his boots.

Satya’s own creations still remain shoved about and scattered in places they shouldn’t. Exasperated with waiting on two equally stubborn men, she’s brought it upon herself to begin the process of scooting over Torbjörn’s belongings to make room for her own. Thankfully, Junkrat’s mess has been mostly quarantined to the other side of the area save for pieces of stray wire and a bottle or two of mysterious compounds, and since he had moved all of her things elsewhere in the room, traversing the elaborate minefield he created is not necessary.

“I do not believe you.” Satya gives Torbjörn a firm stare as she rolls up a sheaf of unfinished schematics. “You are the only other person in this facility that has any knowledge of tempering blades. You have built suits of armor as well as Omnic shells. You repair Reinhardt’s armor. You must think I’m stupid if you expect me to believe that.”

Torbjörn grunts as he works his shoulders into another swing. The amount of power compacted into such a small vessel is astounding. “No, I don’t think you’re stupid,” he says, the clatter of metal on metal ringing in her eardrums. “You’re smart. Got a good head on your shoulders. Hard worker. Good traits. Not stupid. But I do think you’re naive.”

“ _Naive_?” Satya crinkles her nose as she places the schematic rolls into their newly assigned space upon the metal shelving along the wall. Folding her arms, she looks down at him with a pointed glare, the cool metal of her left skittering gooseflesh up her forearm. “And precisely what makes you think that?”

“You’re quick to judge,” says Torbjörn, throwing himself into yet another heavy swing.

“Judge? Him? What else is there to judge? That boy is a disaster!” Incredulous, she gestures to the entire other half of the workshop, where Junkrat’s slew of inventory has managed to double in size since she last saw it. “You can’t possibly defend his ridiculous decisions. You heard what happened the other day, did you not?”

“I did.” Torbjörn sets his hammer down and pauses for a breather. “To be honest, I agree with him. I don’t like Omnics, and I don’t want one here. Machine rights? Hah. I’ve seen what damage they can do. I wouldn’t blow it up, though. Too messy. Wasteful.” He snatches a towel from his belt and dabs it across his forehead. “I’d dismantle it myself. Salvage the parts.”

Satya kneads her temples and prays to the gods for some sanity in this place.

“You realize you are a hypocrite,” she says, scooping up a few models of her hard-light turrets. She tucks them toward the back of the tabletop, adjusting them so they align together properly. “You speak of quick judgment, and yet you have only met Zenyatta once and have already declared him a menace. What sort of naivety is that?”

“You haven’t seen what I’ve seen, Symmetra.” Torbjörn rests the towel over his shoulders and gives them a roll, stretching out the muscles to temper back the exertion. “Omnics destroyed whole cities. Demolished them.”

“Just as there are destructive people,” says Satya, “there are destructive Omnics.”

“Omnics aren’t people.” He straightens out his mustache with a thumb and forefinger. With the other hand, he begins to inspect his work, smoothing his palm over the conjoined constructs of metal that would create the turret’s base. “And whether that Omnic Genji brought with him is destructive or not, I still agree with that sooty beanpole. Omnics can’t be trusted.”

“I’m surprised. I never thought the both of you would get along so well.” Satya retrieves her teleporter base from the left corner of the room and brings it up to the table. “It seems strange to me that two men of such completely different creeds _and_ sizes would find companionship in one another, no less in the hatred of Omnics. Does this mean you will be belligerent as well and cause a scene at breakfast?”

Torbjörn bristles, and Satya knows she’s hit a nerve. “This hammer packs a wallop, you know.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it.” With a smirk, she snags a few stray schematics that have found themselves atop of Junkrat’s array of tools. “I am not naive, Torbjörn. I know you helped Junkrat with that dagger. I want to know why.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he repeats in his lilting accent, resting a hand on the pommel of his hammer. “But you’re going to lump him in with me anyway, aren’t you?”

“There are no other possibilities!” she insists. “No one else has the kind of knowledge required for what happened to that blade. We have myself, a medic, a genetically enhanced gorilla, a woman with a time travel device, a man with armor and a hammer, an Omnic monk, another man with armor but with swords, and two filthy mercenaries Winston decided to hire for who knows what reason. There is no one else. No one!”

“I make armor and guns,” says Torbjörn, patting the primitive base of the turret with a heavy hand. “I’m an engineer, not a swordsmith.”

“You built Reinhardt’s weapon,” she retorts.

“That is not your average hammer. You should have seen all of the customization involved.”

Satya kneels down and glares at him with all of the disapproval she can muster. “Denying the truth will do nothing. I know you helped him. There is no disputing that. I just need to know _why_.”

Torbjörn picks up his hammer by the grip. Tucking the rag back into his belt, he coils himself into a swing. The clang of metal strikes throughout the room and makes her head sing.

“I told you,” he says, a grin at the edges of his mouth, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Satya covers her face with her hands and sighs.


	13. Chapter 13

“So, what do you think of Genji?”

Tracer sits toward the foot of the bed, applying a coat of robin’s egg nail polish with measured carefulness to Satya’s toenails. Her mousy hair is mussed, swept into her eyes and gold-struck from the yellow lamp propped on the desk against the wall. She keeps her shoulders swathed in a swirl of sheets and cloaked over her orange-patterned pajamas for added warmth.

“Very unusual.” Satya inspects the layer of bright polish on her fingers. She tends to do this sort of thing herself as a way of routine and self-care, but once she brought out the vial and started prepping, Tracer had swooped over and insisted she participate, flashing her own nails as tangible proof of her skill. So far, Satya has no complaints. Not a single blemish, or at least one she’s been able to find. “I’ve not seen him without his armor. He always seems to have it on. Is that normal?”

“Sort of. Doctor Ziegler fitted him with cybernetic parts,” says Tracer, dipping the brush back in the bottle. “He was wounded something fierce several years ago. Edge of _death_ fierce. But she brought him back, and now look at him. Proper fighting machine.”

“That kind of medicine is possible? Well, aside from prosthetics, of course. Integrating the body almost completely with machinery?” Satya blows cool air on her nails to help them dry, gently waving her hand back and forth. “That is… strange, but impressive nonetheless.”

“Suppose it is. Seems a bit surreal, sure, but Doctor Ziegler really is a miracle worker. She’s saved so many lives with her work.” Tracer pats the top of her foot with her palm. “All right, that one’s done. Give me the other, love.”

Satya stretches out her other leg and allows the painted one dangle off of the mattress to dry. After a brief yawn, Tracer cracks her knuckles and sets to work on applying a new coat. The chilly liquid glossing over her nails trickles pleasant shivers through her skin, and Satya decides that even though she normally utilizes this slot of time for planning and introspection, spending an evening with Tracer isn’t so bad.

“So, what about the mad bomber, then?”

Satya promptly retracts the thought.

“What about him?” she asks, taking care to smooth out the edge in her voice.

“Well, we’re talking about the team, aren’t we? Gossiping and all that. So tell me what you think of him. Doctor Ziegler said you saved his skin back on the last mission with your shields. That must’ve been interesting, right?”

“He’s obnoxious,” says Satya. She clenches the sleek metal of her left fist, and all she can see is him smirking over his shoulder in the mess hall, her conjured blade strapped to the back of his belt. The sculpted muscle of his back and shoulders strained beneath his harness shortly follows. “No sense of proper synergy. He was injured because he couldn’t be bothered to stay out of danger. I only made sure he didn’t bleed to death.”

“He does look a bit mental, doesn’t he? Like a burnt piece of toast. Bit crispy at the edges and all blackened throughout the middle.” Tracer pops the brush back in the bottle and then dabs the extra polish off. “You know, I heard what happened before the rest of us showed up the other night. Got in a tiff with Genji and got his skinny arse beat.”

“Strangled,” corrects Satya. She remembers the thick bruise upon his throat, and part of her feels a faint twinge of sympathy despite herself. He’s reckless, of course, but no one deserves to be choked to the point of unconsciousness. “To be honest, I thought the worst. His gigantic friend came to his defense and started crushing Genji’s head with his bare hand.”

“Oh, I heard that as well. That big guy’s not too friendly, either, is he?” Tracer brushes the polish on in meticulous strokes, moving from one toe to the next. “I’d be afraid to be on the other end of that gun. Or hook. Or anything, really. He gives me the jitters just looking at him. Not somebody I’d want to be fighting.”

The vivid thought of Roadhog staring at her presses up behind her eyelids; the mess hall, the outcrop by the ocean, the facility’s entrance on the day they arrived. His knot of platinum hair and black mask etch an intimidating glare that refuses to leave. With his grand stature and massive strength, Satya tends to forget he’s human at all.

He _is_ human, right?

“You know, I’m sort of glad they’re with us, in a way,” says Tracer, fanning her hand to help dry Satya’s nails. “Much rather be on the same team as those two than having to face them. Can’t imagine trying to bring those blokes down. One’s got bombs, and the other you can’t even tell, he’d just wallop you. Makes it a bit better, I think. At least they’re here and not causing a riot somewhere else out in the world.”

That’s one way of looking at it, she thinks. Having them here prevents them from inflicting damage somewhere else. She can’t be sure, but perhaps that was Winston’s motive for hiring them. They have expertise, however outlandish, and it’s best that not go to an opposing power. Tracer isn’t wrong; things could be worse.

As frustrating as Junkrat is, Satya supposes she’s grateful he’s on her side.


	14. Chapter 14

Junkrat sits beside her on the dropship to their next mission, and there is absolutely nothing she can do about it.

Satya had been lagging behind, much to her chagrin, and made it to the dropship just before the team boarded. With Tracer, Winston, Genji, Reinhardt, Mercy, Roadhog, and Junkrat already ahead of her, there were not many empty seats left by the time she made it aboard. Two remained: one against the ship’s wall with Roadhog right beside, and one wedged right between Junkrat and Mercy. Faced with the choice of sitting next to Junkrat or Roadhog for the duration of the journey, she chose the lesser of two evils.

To her left, Mercy snoozes soundly in her seat. Her Valkyrie ensemble is only half assembled to allow her to climb into the seat’s harness and rest without discomfort. The charcoal sweeps beneath her eyes suggest she’d stayed up far later than she’d intended, but a few hour long flight would most likely make up for any lack of sleep. Satya doesn’t dare disturb her; being the team’s medic, she needs all of the rest she can get.

To her right, Junkrat scribbles on an old notepad with a pencil that’s been snapped in half. His tongue traces his upper row of teeth as he writes, gliding across canines and bicuspids and a glint of gold. The wet red at the edge of her vision starts to become distracting after a while, especially when there is little to do short of sitting and waiting for the ship to land. It doesn’t help that his shorts seem to be hugging far lower than usual; both the lean muscle up his abdomen and the rigid ‘v’ of his hip bones show with too much prominence.

It is _so_ very difficult to ignore something when it’s constantly in one’s peripheral.

Centering a deep breath within, Satya presses her eyes closed and tries to shut everything out. Gently, she nods her head back and forth to her own internal cadence. Junkrat is nothing but a madman with a love for bombs, she reminds herself; he lives for disorder and destruction. He steals and blows things up and relishes in the opportunity to see sparks fly. There is nothing good there, only an unhinged criminal, and all the more reason to keep him at arm’s length.

Unfortunately, arm’s length is currently flush with hers against the seats.

Satya can feel the muscles tense and release through his bicep and forearm as he writes, and no matter how much she tries to ignore the world around her, the ship always ends up experiencing some sort of turbulence that sends Junkrat’s elbow straight into her arm. While it’s not painful, it’s a jarring thing to have happen every few minutes, and it serves only to further interrupt her concentration. On top of that, he seems to be tapping his foot against the ship floor to a rhythm only he can hear. It’s quick, steady, consistent, pervading over the hum of the ship’s engines, _tick-tock tick-tock_ , and she has no idea how Mercy hasn’t been roused from the noise.

Cracking open one eye, she peers down at the notepad in his lap. A great deal of the scribbling is unintelligible, she finds. His handwriting seems scattered and smashed together, concocted of scratchy letters and crushed font. There are pictures, though, which are sketched out with some degree of accuracy. The one he’s working on appears to be a rudimentary blueprint for some sort of mine, though if she were asked what kind it was, she wouldn’t know.

Gods, even when he’s not able to build, he’s still building. Incredible.

“Don’t you ever _stop_?” she asks.

Junkrat flicks his gaze to her with an arched brow. “What? What d’you mean?”

“That,” she says, nodding toward his notepad. “Your… work.”

“Nah. Gotta keep ticking.” He pauses to roll the pencil between his fingers, the exposed skin from beneath his glove somewhat charred and calloused. A thin strand of graphite pokes out of the splintered end of the pencil, and she notes there are soft smudges where he’s dragged his hand across the paper. “Was Roadhog’s big idea. Always get antsy on long rides, yeah? Hate waiting. Could be doing so many other things. When we was off to London, nearly blew up the bloody train outta boredom. So he gives me this, right, says if I can’t behave or do work, do my job, I can at least cook up something new. Keep busy. Designs, recipes, the works. S’all habit now.”

“Recipes?” Satya knows she’s going to regret asking. “You’re referring to—”

“ _Kaboom!_ Bigger and better. Usually.” Tucking his tongue between his teeth, he lifts up the pages and flips through them. “Came up with a good few so far, if I do say so myself. Different mixes and all that. Should be a real nice turnout. Have to see when I get a chance to make ‘em. Sometimes they don’t explode too well, though. Duds. Means something’s not right or I missed something. Wires, most like. Least for the big ones. Don’t always remember to do ‘em proper. So many of ‘em, y’know, get too stoked about the big bang at the end and forget about ‘em.”

It’s almost awe inspiring exactly how giddy he gets about this. Junkrat’s mouth pinches in a wide grin, his molten eyes admiring the notes beneath his fingers with a great fondness. His entire posture has changed; he’s hunched forward, foot and peg brought together, his knees bowed out. The orange prosthetic holds the notepad still in his lap while his good fingers muddle through the pages.

If it were about anything other than explosives, it might be endearing.

“How’s your…” Satya gently touches her throat. “Well, your injury. From last week.”

Junkrat pauses and cranes his neck, allowing her to see. The slope of his adam’s apple dips as he swallows, the thick lines of tendons roping down to meet the etching of his collarbone. The bruise has faded into a far more flesh-like color than before, she notes, although it’s not quite disappeared just yet.

“Mostly gone now,” he says, and traces downward with a feathery touch. “Hurt like hell for a good while. Roadhog made me sit with some ice. S’where I came up with most of these designs past few days. Better than lying about all day doing nothing. Oh, right, almost forgot, here—” He digs something out of one of his front belt pouches and holds it out to her between a smoky thumb and forefinger, “—wanted to give you a little something. Say thank you. Y’know, gratitude and all.”

It’s a small, red sphere, approximately the size of a very large grape. Its two halves have been welded together—she has no idea how he can keep still long enough to _weld_ something—and a smiley face with sharp teeth drawn in what looks to be black marker grins up at her. Staring, Satya feels dread coil up behind her breastbone and press to against the sides of her lungs. It seems to be one of the crimson grenades he uses to reload his launcher from what she can tell, but from what happened the last time he pulled one of those little cherries out of his packs, she wants absolutely nothing to do with it.

“Ah, it’s just an empty shell,” he says, popping it into her lap, “so don’t go getting your knickers in a twist. Nothing explodey in there, promise. Reckon I’d just give you a little souvenir, yeah? Roadhog said you stepped in when that wanker with the swords went and wrung me out.” With a metal finger, he traces a line down the side of his throat for emphasis. “So that’s what, twice now you’ve gone and saved my neck? Should start keeping score. Two to one now, right? First to five gets a prize.”

“I do not want any part of this.” Satya can feel warmth flushing through her face and climbing up her neck. The cherry shell rests in the valley of her thighs, framed by the brilliant blue fabric of her dress. “I tried to intervene because you are part of the team, Junkrat. Mercy was there. Why don’t you give her this? She saved you twice as well using that logic.”

“Right, she did, yeah.” Junkrat grins, a glitter of gold winking at her from the corner of his mouth. “But that’s her job. She’s a medic. S’what she’s supposed to do, right? Patch people up after they get themselves hurt and send ‘em off again. That ain’t your job, now, ain’t it?”

“No. It’s not.” Satya swallows, her hands clasping tightly together, and she faces him with a stern stare. “But it _is_ my job to keep order. Harmony among our group is paramount. There can’t be any teamwork if we’re fighting amongst ourselves. How should we expect to face an enemy if we can’t keep our own in check?”

“Bah, you bring all that on yourself,” says Junkrat, waving a dismissive hand. “Still not your job. No one never told you, ‘Oh, yeah, we’re gonna need you to keep the whole lot in line, just give ‘em a good smack if they get mouthy,’ ‘cause that’s not on you, that’s on the gorilla. Keeping order ain’t your job just as much as saving my neck ain’t your job.” He looks at her with a manic smile, faded freckles peering out from beneath the smudged soot on his cheeks. “I’ll admit, though, you do ‘em pretty good, even if they ain’t yours.”

Satya hates this. She’s stuck here, trapped beside Junkrat in a cramped space upon a moving ship with an empty bombshell in her lap, and all she can do is stare. The shape of his jaws, the sharpness of his chin, the muscle roping through his shoulders and down his chest, the dip of his navel, the light hair trailing southward; she follows the knotted musculature of his arm and the tendons through his hand and the smudged skin of his fingers. His scent is an amalgam of acrid compounds and fire entwined with a thin undercurrent of sweat and graphite. He’s buttering her up, she knows, but she doesn’t know _why_ , and she can feel her own pulse in her neck and hear the rhythm pound in her ears and she can’t leave this stupid ship and she absolutely _hates_ it.

“Thank you,” she manages, her tone firm and even. Trying her damnedest to reclaim her composure, she draws a deep breath and tries to recall the designs of as many of her hard-light schematics as she can. “It’s appreciated.”

“Ha, why you thanking me? You’re the one doing all the work! I’m just here as the one man demolition crew.” Junkrat snatches the pencil back between his fingers and starts to scribble in the notepad again, sketching out the shell of another explosive. “Really, though, I was serious about the first to five. Might make these little outings a bit more fun, yeah? You know, since I’m supposed to be standing behind the big bloke with the shield now.” His chuckle morphs into a raucous laugh.

Satya scowls as she cups the empty shell in her hands. “That is not funny, Junkrat.”

“Right, so what’s some ideas for prizes, then?” he asks, ignoring her remark. “What’s your tastes? Don’t think you’ll right like much of what I make since you snubbed that. You like order, yeah? That like keeping things all tidy, or is that more like having everybody follow directions all day?”

“I never _agreed_ to this,” says Satya, nudging him forcefully with her elbow. Fury pulls through her voice and she makes sure he feels it. “I am not going to make preventing teammates’ deaths a _game_!”

“Ah, no worries, you’ll come around, you’ll come around.” He shrugs her off and continues his work, the nub of the pencil creating soft scritching sounds as he writes out a list of components. “Right, look, I’ll think on it a tick and get back to you. Best do some thinking yourself, ‘cause I’m only one behind you.”

Satya shuts her eyes and seethes. The shell in her hand is warm and damp from her palm. Humming chatter from the team filters in and Mercy’s soft snores pour from her left. The thrum of the engines pools around her, her heart still hammering behind her sternum, and she can still hear the _tick-tock_ of his tapping foot. Fingers clasped, she turns her focus inward and tries to find something, _anything_ she can latch onto; the pristine academy halls, the glimmering structures of Utopaea, mental exercises her Vishkar instructors had taught.

Just a professional relationship, she reminds herself.

Why did she even open her mouth?


	15. Chapter 15

Being pinned against a building by Talon agents with Junkrat and Roadhog is not Satya’s idea of a good time.

The remainder of the group is far on the other side of the street, and there is no clear way across. The operatives’ line of sight is far too wide to make a move; her team has a poor vantage point, split apart and clustered between two opposite buildings, and any direct fire from the area ahead would cause grievous injury. From what she can see, Mercy stays by Reinhardt’s side, Valkyrie wings spread open, tucked behind his giant barrier to protect herself from sniper fire. Tracer and Winston have flanked up a side street, barreling forward to harass back-line soldiers, and Genji swoops ahead with shurikens swirling from his hands. Beside her, Roadhog fires potshots with his heavy shotgun and Junkrat launches cherry-colored grenades across the way with a cackling laugh.

And here she is, poking around corners and releasing charged photon shots in hopes of knocking someone out.

“We must reach the others,” she says, conjuring another blot of ammunition with her left hand. “If we stay here for too long, they will maneuver around us.”

“Yeah, well, we don’t got much choice right now, do we?” Tongue licking the corner of his mouth, Junkrat fires another round of grenades around the edge of the building face. Something explodes up beyond the wall, a chain-reaction of consequent, punctuated _bang_ s that lights up the brilliant amber of his eyes. “Dunno ‘bout you, but I’m not sticking my neck out there. Sniper’s like to blow it off. ‘Sides, you got your little gizmos behind us. If they feel like coming the long way ‘round, they’ll have a nasty surprise waiting for ‘em.”

“Even so, my turrets won’t last for long. They’re only a diversion.” Satya clutches the trigger of the photon projector and starts another charge. The weapon is warm against the palm of her hand as it draws in energy from the hard-light she’d pressed into its chamber. “We need a way across. Or at the very least something to throw off their fire that could allow us passage. Staying here will only put us at risk of a flanking attack.”

After she unleashes the shot, Satya slinks back into cover and flicks her left hand to generate another shard for the projector. As she presses it in, she realizes that Junkrat has halted in the middle of reloading. Extra grenades are tucked in the spaces between his left fingers, poised just before the chamber; his eyes are wide, staring at the asphalt underneath him as if he were in a delirious trance. His shoulders glisten with sweat and residue, the hot pavement sweltering beneath, his blond hair a streaked and golden mess.

“Junkrat?” Satya snaps her fingers and waves at him from her spot against the building. “Are you all right? Is something wrong?”

Junkrat doesn’t reply. A grin taking shape of his mouth, he takes a few loping steps back and straightens himself to look up toward the shingled roof of their brick-faced cover. Grenades in tow, his hand crosses the length of his forehead to block out the harshness of the noonday sun.

“Hang on,” he says, his voice tempered into a greedy timbre. “Oh, hang on, hang on. I got an idea. I got a _great_ idea. Oh, you’ll love this.”

Shoving the rest of the cherries into a clip and mashing it into his launcher with added haste, he uses his thumb and forefinger to tug everything into place and reload. With his left hand, he then digs into the larger pack slung around his hips and retrieves a weighty mine from its open flap. He starts to pace away from the building in his halting gait, explosive in hand, and from his examination of the ground and the invisible lines he’s tracing with the edge of his boot, he seems to be _counting_ , although Satya doesn’t know why.

It’s several moments of this before he glances up at the building again, holds up a smudged thumb, and nods. Seeming satisfied, Junkrat drops the mine on the asphalt—and then promptly steps on top of it.

Alarm bleeds through Satya’s nerves. “What are you _doing_?”

“Oi, Roadie!” In the depths of another pouch, he tugs out the familiar shape of a detonator and curls it into his fist. He pries up the lid with a black nail as he faces Roadhog. “You ready, mate?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Roadhog gives a stiff nod.

“Perfect. Right, then!” He shifts to Satya and gives her a brief salute, glinting an aurum grin in the permeating sunheat. “Catch you in a tick, love. Gotta give them snipers a friendly little how-do-you-do.”

Oh, gods, she thinks; no, he’s _not_ , what is he _doing_ —

With a dainty wave of his hand, Junkrat hits the detonator.

The explosion is deafening. The ringing etches through the film in her ears and thunders through her bones. Smoke, dust, and chunks of pavement enshroud the space where he once was; holding a cupped hand against her mouth, she coughs through the thick of it and attempts to figure out what happened through the haze.

When she realizes he’s nowhere near the ground, she glances upward. If she squints, she can discern Junkrat’s figure standing atop the building. What on earth does he hope to accomplish up there? She thinks she can see him wave down at her, but the glare of the sun is in her eyes and her visor does little to remedy it. After a moment, he disappears to another part of the rooftop and out of sight, and Satya is left with Roadhog down below.

Not a minute passes before the mighty roar of an engine pervades through the peppered din of gunfire. Drops of dread pull down the length of her spine; all Satya can think is that reinforcements for the Talon operatives have arrived. With a flourish of her fingers, she creates a shard of ammunition for the photon projector and prepares herself for another encounter.

Somewhere beyond Satya’s choice of cover, a wracking explosion resounds throughout the complex ahead. The wall at her back trembles; the cracking intensity of the blast echoes off the cobbled brick buildings. Across the stretch of street, Satya can see the puzzlement and surprise of both Reinhardt and Mercy as they seize the opportunity to push forward.

Slowly, Roadhog treads up beside her and gives her a thumbs up.

Unnerved by the blank stare of his mask, Satya mimics the gesture. “So, that was—?”

Roadhog only nods.

“Get ready, mate!” Junkrat’s voice cuts down to the pavement. “Bombs away!”

Before Satya can react, the silhouette of his lanky form leaps from the rooftops.

Panic knits in beside her lungs and she stumbles backwards. She can’t believe this madman; not only did he launch himself clear onto a rooftop with one of his own self-made explosives, he’s jumping off of the very same rooftop without any sort of safety precaution. As he plummets, she catches the stark scent of fire and ashes, and she thinks she can see plumes of smoke trailing his descent.

Roadhog barges back beside her and plants himself beneath Junkrat’s assessed trajectory. Arms out, he shifts his legs apart and braces himself for impact. His enormous muscles rope taut, stomach tense, and his mask raises to the sky to watch for his plunging friend. It’s not long before Junkrat collides promptly into Roadhog’s awaiting grasp. The both of them tumble to the asphalt, Roadhog crashing onto his rump and Junkrat spinning off onto the hot pavement a few feet away.

Photon projector at her hip, Satya rushes over to him. He seems far worse for wear, she finds; now short one tire-bomb, the ends of his hair look to have been recently aflame. Soot cloaks down his back and shoulders, and a thick residue clings to the muscle of his left leg and along the fabric of his grubby trousers. In spite of things, he’s still slicked with sweat, his brow and the rigid plane of his abdomen a damp mess.

“Oof, that was rough,” he mutters, rolling onto his side. Grenade launcher tucked against his chest, he takes his chin into his good hand and twists, cracking his neck in a few short pops. “What a landing. Was pretty good, actually. Had worse.”

“Junkrat,” says Satya, dropping to a kneel, “what were you _thinking_? I thought we spoke about you putting yourself in direct danger! If you can’t stay behind Reinhardt, at least stay on the ground!”

“Really? That don’t sound like me. I don’t remember agreeing to nothing like that. What fun is hiding behind a shield?” A wide smirk curves the side of his mouth as he starts clambering to his feet. “Aw, don’t gotta get all worked up worrying about me, Symmetra. I’m fine. Still in one piece, yeah?”

Satya bites at the flat of her tongue. The heat from the asphalt swelters up and slicks against her skin and through the thick mane of her hair, and yet the warmth flushing up her neck seems far worse. Rising to her feet, she tries not to let it bother her, but there are already cracks in her composure. “Junkrat, you’re a part of—”

“The team, right, right, yeah, I’ve heard that rubbish already.” He clasps his hands at the small of his back and stretches; the lines of his hips pop up, shoulders tightening, the plateaus of his shoulder blades rolling out. “Well, in case you missed it, I just blew up a bunch of them over there _for the team_ , so you don’t gotta go lecturing me.”

Satya shuts her eyes and pulls in a breath, ash and smoke fresh in the air. She can’t—shouldn’t—look at him, and she has to remind herself yet again that he is nothing but a crazed madman. She doesn’t _want_ to lecture; if only he could get it through his thick skull that there are other people present, that the team needs to be taken into account and not just his errant whimsy, then maybe things might be a bit smoother.

Gunfire has spurred up again in the distance. Roadhog draws himself back up onto his feet and cracks his shotgun out of its holster. With thundering footsteps and the jangling of his hook at his side, he barrels between the buildings and joins the rest of the team into the fray.

“C’mon,” says Junkrat, beckoning with a sweep of his hand as he follows suit. “We got us some mayhem to cause!”

Satya steps after him and tugs the photon projector from her side. The glint of the azure blade at the back of his belt catches her eye in the glittering sunshine, and she feels the wedge pry in her throat as her fists coil tight. Junkrat might be on her side, she thinks, but she has no concept of his motives. She doesn’t know why he’s bothered to pull all of these insane stunts or why he kept her dagger or why he smiled at her like he knew something she didn’t.

What’s worse, when he fell—

Satya was _worried_.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had many more ideas for this, but all that I wanted to crush into it wouldn't fit. The next vignette will sort of follow where this leaves off.

Waiting for the celebratory post-mission dinner is a tense affair.

Torbjörn has roped both Reinhardt and Mercy into its extensive preparations, so the remainder of the team ambles around the mess hall or takes up shop in the nearby recreation room until the dinner bell. Both Genji and Zenyatta have made an appearance; they’ve collected with Tracer and Winston in heavy conversation among the rec room’s cluster of leather sofas. Low murmuring pools from them as Satya passes, but nothing discernable slips by.

While she is not uncomfortable with Zenyatta’s presence, there is a palpable tension writhing through the air. Since the incident between Genji and Junkrat last week, it seems that most of the team has kept away from common areas to prevent future altercations. Debriefings are unavoidable, of course, and are treated with as much care and sensitivity as possible, but so are dinners—not a soul wants to miss Torbjörn’s fantastic creations due to petty scuffles.

Choosing to retain the most amount of distance from the Omnic monk as possible, Junkrat and Roadhog have taken residence in the mess hall. Junkrat has pulled up a chair and scooted it to the open kitchen door, leaning with his prosthetic arm around the chair’s back and his good leg crossed. Roadhog keeps to himself at a table a short hop away, a piping hot cup of tea placed before him. His hands dwarf the cup and saucer with their enormous size, and the thought of Genji’s helm cracking beneath his thick fingers ripples a shiver through her vertebrae.

As Satya approaches, she hears Junkrat gabbing to someone off in the depths of the kitchen. Torbjörn, she supposes, especially after the chat she’d had with him about the hard-light blade, but he’s been very jovial with both Reinhardt and Mercy, too. It’s rather surprising how well others seem to warm up to him as long as they have no affiliations with Omnics.

“Junkrat,” comes Mercy’s voice from within, “while I do appreciate the company, are you going to sit there until everything is finished?”

“Was planning on it,” says Junkrat. “Why? That a big deal?”

Mercy pokes her head out from the kitchen, a mixing bowl in hand. Her blond hair is pulled into a messy tail and soft locks of her fringe fall across her eyes. A plain white apron adorns her front. From the looks of things, there have been a good deal of spills already.

“Oh, goodness, you’re filthy,” she says, and points an accusing shoe in his direction. “I was going to ask you to make yourself useful and help, but why don’t you go clean up instead? Perhaps you can assist with Reinhardt’s dish if you are quick enough.”

“Angela, don’t tell him that!” scolds Reinhardt from somewhere behind her. “The boy explodes things. I do not want my _sauerbraten_ in flames. He will help Torbjörn!”

Mercy sighs. “You may help me, then. But only if you bathe! I will not stand for contamination in this kitchen.”

Drawing up beside Junkrat, Satya is able to see what Mercy is stressing about. In the few hours they’ve had since returning to Gibraltar, Junkrat is still as singed and soot-covered as he was when he’d blown up the Talon operative snipers. While his tousled nest of golden hair is no longer smoking, there is still a clear layer of grime clinging to his body; soot sweeps across his fingers, blackens his nails, smudges his cheekbones; caked ash and sweat mantles his shoulders and slicks down his back; dust combs through the fabric of his shorts and along the light hairs of his left leg. The chair has lingering residue from where his back and hand have touched it.

“It might behoove you to do as she says,” says Satya, offering Mercy a sympathetic smile. She folds her arms as she stands beside Junkrat and the biting scent of acrid reagents and singed perspiration. It’s strong enough for her to clear her throat. “You do seem a bit disheveled, Junkrat. Perhaps it is best you paid a visit to the showers.”

“But I’m always like this.” Seeming confused, Junkrat gives himself a once over with a knit brow. “I don’t get it. What’s the difference?”

“The difference is that you’re leaving a trail,” says Satya. She points to the places where his bare skin has met the chair with her left hand. “Do you not see what you’re sitting in?”

“You will not eat unless you bathe.” With a playful grin, Mercy brandishes her mixing spoon as if it were a weapon and shakes it at him. “If you can retrieve enemy intelligence by means of your explosives, you can bathe. Now, go. Shoo! Don’t make me get another spoon.”

“Really? You lot’re having this problem now?” Junkrat wrinkles his nose and sticks out his tongue in distaste. “Been here for weeks like this. No one’s said a bloody thing.”

“No, not like that at all,” states Mercy, her voice quite firm. She returns to mixing and twists the spoon about in the bowl of thick batter. “In fact, you are considerably worse than your usual mess. I am the one who cleaned up the usual mess; I should know. Now, will I have to get another spoon, or will you go quietly?”

“All right, all right, fine,” he grumbles, lifting himself out of the chair with a grunt. Soot crumbles and falls away from his fingers as he rises. “If you’re gonna refuse me grub and get your knickers all bunched up over a bit of black stuff, I’ll go wash my mug.”

“Thank you, Junkrat. I appreciate it.” Mercy waves her spoon farewell as he lopes away. “It will be worth it, I promise!”

After he’s left the mess hall, Satya can’t help but laugh. “Is that really all we must do to get him to clean up? Scold him like mothers?”

“It seems so,” says Mercy, unable to stifle her own chuckles. “You know, when he had his abdominal injury, I told him that I would be scrubbing that grime off of him whether he liked it or not. He told me in no uncertain terms that I was to leave him alone. I told _him_ in no uncertain terms that doing so would disregard your valiant effort to save his life and that he absolutely would endure being clean. He was rather quiet after that. Plenty of scowls, though.”

For a moment, Satya has a difficult time parsing what’s being said. The dark shadow of Junkrat lying in the infirmary bed wells up under her eyelids: prosthetics tucked away, rigid muscle up his belly, half-draped in white sheets and blond hair splayed across crisp pillow tops. Faint stippled freckles marked the places where the soot had set, and if it had been on any other man, it might have been handsome.

Her eyes roam to where Roadhog sits with his teacup. The black wrap of his mask gives an empty stare from where he waits, the knot of his hair appearing stark white under the overhead lights, and his great hands lace together before the cooled drink. Although his presence is intimidating, it seems somehow less malicious than before.

Satya lets Mercy prattle on about the importance of hygiene and the dangers of contaminated food, but she can’t stop dwelling on her idle remarks. She knows that Mercy enjoys a clean environment, and that clean patients are easier to heal than filthy ones. Junkrat must have been under duress, of course—extreme pain, delirium, Mercy lecturing him on cleanliness—there should be no question. But he acquiesced under the threat of her name.

She glances toward the entrance of the mess hall, wondering if he truly meant to bathe.

Does she really hold so much clout with that madman?


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two quick notes:  
> 1\. I am so, so sorry.  
> 2\. This is the First Thing out of The Five Things that Must Be.
> 
> And a third:  
> 3\. Please do not kill me. :c

Dinner has been said and done, and Junkrat is nowhere to be found.

After Mercy’s firm admonishments, Satya had assumed he would return to the mess hall after a quick shower. While he was quite enswathed with dirt, she estimated about twenty to thirty minutes would be necessary to cleanse himself of the grit and grime that clung to his lanky body. Perhaps a bit longer, she supposed, depending on how thorough he felt like being (not very). Still, she had expected him to saunter back in around the time Torbjörn would declare the meal complete, and he would then join in with the rest of the team in their usual ritual despite the Omnic tension.

That has not been the case.

Mercy, Reinhardt, and Torbjörn have already tended to the cleanup. Most of the team has left the mess hall after a much deserved meal in favor of seeking ways to unwind after a difficult mission. Roadhog, Tracer, and Winston still linger at their respective tables, but Junkrat remains missing.

Smoothing the sleeve of her Vishkar-issued blouse, Satya approaches Roadhog’s hulking form as he tends to something on his plate. She taps him on the shoulder with the cool metal of her left hand. She has just barely enough time to lift her fingers before he whips his neck around to look at her. Part of his mask has been undone, she realizes; it’s lifted just enough to where she can see the shape of a strong jaw marred by two thick scars, peppered about with a whitish stubble. One sharp mark crosses over his lips, splitting the brown skin down in a rough, puckered tissue.

A cool shock of adrenaline webs through her veins and sends her heart hammering. His eyes are still hidden under the shadow of his mask, but she still feels the intense pressure of his gaze.

“I—I have not seen your friend,” she manages, smoothing out her voice’s timbre with some effort. She can’t keep her eyes off of the portion of his exposed face. It’s equal parts shock and relief; relief because there is truly a man underneath the mask, and shock because she doesn’t know if she was meant to see. “He left some time ago. Do you know what became of him? I imagined he would have returned by now for supper.”

Roadhog brings a fork to his mouth and tears off the piece of meat speared by its tines. Working his jaws to chew, he shakes his head in silent reply.

“Ah, I see,” says Satya. “Well, thank you.” With a polite and appreciative nod, she gathers herself and starts toward the mess hall doors, eager to be away from his company.

As she wanders down the outpost halls, she finds it strange that Roadhog wouldn’t know where Junkrat went. The two junkers seem inseparable; she’s never seen them apart aside from when Junkrat has decided to devote his time to crafting explosives. Absently, she wonders if Junkrat had opted to take to the workshop or sleep off the mission in the barracks so he could return to the kitchen for leftovers when Mercy wouldn’t be around to critique his lack of hygiene.

If that’s the case, Satya feels quite sorry for Reinhardt and Torbjörn.

With her right hand, she rubs at her cheeks and forehead. Oil grips to the pads of her fingers as she pulls away, and with a crinkled nose, she decides that rinsing her face before retiring would be the proper thing to do. She needs the time to take out her earrings and to file her nails, too, so she reroutes her path toward the communal washrooms.

When she wanders in, the first thing she hears is the gentle patter of running water against the cold tile floor. Glancing to her right, she peers out toward the section structured for showers. The one farthest down the line is in use, water curving paths beneath the stalls and toward the grated drain in their center. Most of the team has dispersed to other parts of the outpost to let off steam or continue their nightly routines, and she finds it peculiar that someone would be here now.

What if—

No.

 _No_.

And yet she finds herself traversing the line of showers. The soles of her shoes scuff down the tile as she walks, passing by the series of stalls and benches set across from them. Each has a pale blue certain swept in front of it, and each has an ample enough space inside to accommodate a seat against the wall, serving either for personal effects or for sitting, should the bathing party be unable to stand—a relief for when the body is too exhausted for proper self-care.

At the end of the line, a pair of two orange prosthetics rest against the wooden benches. A white towel and a heavy roll of something that looks like gauze accompanies them, although she can’t be certain. Several dusty pouches and a compact canteen cluster by a pair of gritty trousers on the floor below, followed shortly by a lump of navy fabric that looks an awful lot like boxer briefs.

“Roadie, that you?” Junkrat’s voice pours up from over the rhythmic cadence of the water. “I’ll be out in a bit, mate. Apparently the bloody girls got a problem or something. Stupid. You save me any good stuff?”

Something in Satya’s stomach twists. She never should have come here. “Junkrat?”

“Wait.” The curtain is wrenched open. A wet and naked man stares at her from within, sitting cross-legged on the seat. “ _Symmetra_?”

“ _Junkrat_!” Satya whirls away, a knot wedging in her throat. “Gods, please, cover yourself!”

“Oi,” he says, a defensive edge honing his tone, “you’re the one who barged in on _me_ , all right? I don’t go about nudging my nose in when you’re having a wash and complain when your tits are out.”

He has a point, she realizes, albeit a crude one, but it doesn’t stop her from holding her hand over her face.

Regardless, Junkrat indulges her. It takes a minute or so—she hears the grunt of him lifting himself from the shower bench, the squeaky twist of the tap as he shuts off the streaming water, and the wet sounds of his foot as he makes his way to where his towel is folded outside the shower. After he collects it, she then hears him tug it around himself and then sit back in the stall.

“All right,” he says. “This is as good as it’s gonna get ‘til I get my arm back.”

Satya removes her hand and tentatively turns back to him. Leaning his left arm against the shower wall, a very wet and very tired-looking Junkrat stares back out at her. The towel lies draped over his lap, his good foot resting on the damp tile. Water drizzles down the front of his body; droplets collect by his collarbone, his navel, the sharp lines of his hips. His wild hair seems rather lank and almost brunet under the weight of the water, but it brings out the sloping edges of his face and the warm amber of his eyes. Sparse, light freckles stipple the skin beneath his eyes and the tops of his shoulders, revealed by the absence of soot that had cloaked them over.

“So, why you here?” His eyebrows arced, he gazes over at her with a thin smirk tracing the edges of his mouth. “Been thinking, right, it’s a bit weird. Dunno about you, but I’m seeing a pattern: you keep popping in when I got my clothes off.”

Heat threads through Satya’s cheeks and she finds that her throat feels particularly dry. “You’re flattering yourself. This has been twice out of all of the times we’ve seen one another. It’s been nothing more than coincidence.”

“Coincidence? So, what, you’re telling me you wasn’t expecting to come in here and find me stripped?”

“That’s—” She rubs her face between her hands in exasperation. Why must he be so difficult? “That isn’t what I meant. You know that.”

“Right, yeah,” says Junkrat. “So what’d you mean, then?”

“I didn’t know you were _here_ ,” she explains, jabbing at the floor for emphasis. “How could I have anticipated you would still be in the washroom? It’s been an hour and a half since you left. I thought you went to bed. You never showed up to dinner!”

“That ain’t what happened when I was stuck in that sick room.” He scratches at his chin with his hand, fingers ghosting over the faded bruise on his throat. “You knew I was there. Just popped in at whatever bloody hour during the middle of the night. Woke me up, made some excuse like you was worried about me carking it. You can’t say that’s not on purpose. Not believing that for a second.”

“Yes, I knew you were there. But if you think I somehow knew your trousers were missing that night,” she says with a glare, “you are very, very wrong.”

Junkrat laughs. “Right, right, fine. Okay. Coincidence. Sure. If you really wanna call it that. Some funny coincidence, if you ask me.”

“I am _not_ asking you,” she says.

“Right, but you’re still here.” He takes a portion of the towel and dabs at the stump of his right arm below his elbow, the muscle of his shoulders roping taut as he pats it dry. “For someone talking coincidences, you ain’t doing yourself no favors, love.”

Satya pinches her eyes shut and sucks in a sharp breath. “I don’t have to explain myself to you. I did not come here to find you _or_ to gawk at you without your clothes.”

“Well, why don’t you do me a favor, then.” Junkrat gestures over to his prosthetics with a jerk of his foot. “Mind handing me those?”

After a silent moment of deliberation, Satya decides it’s best to comply. With care, she lifts both the arm from the bench and the wrap of gauze and offers them to him from outside the stall. Junkrat meets her only halfway, stretching himself just enough so he can reach without causing the towel to drop. He lowers himself back onto the seat, setting the prosthetic across his lap, and starts to undo the gauze. With a haste that could only be achieved through constant repetition, he wraps up the stump of his right arm using a combination of his fingers and teeth. When he’s satisfied that it has been dressed properly, he bites down on the gauze and tears it off the roll. He tucks the stray piece into the folds of white and then begins to fit the orange metal onto his arm. After a few moments, the construct responds, and he’s able to clench his fist.

Without being prompted, Satya brings him the leg. With a soft “Ta,” he sets it beside him on the seat and lifts the towel along his right thigh. Channeling the same calculated quickness, Junkrat loops the gauze around the end of his leg until it’s fully dressed. Settling into the prosthetic seems somewhat less difficult than it had been with his arm; once he has it all strapped in, everything seems to respond to him bending a knee without trouble. Gently, after clenching the towel about his hips with a fist, he rises to his feet with a slight wobble—equilibrium rebalancing, she assumes, for being without their extra weight.

“Right,” he says, knotting the towel in place. “So, Miss Order, what d’you think? This good enough to get Ol’ Angel Wings off my back? All the black stuff’s off. Mostly. Least it looks like it.” He twists about as he tries to peer over his shoulder and down his back. “Might’ve missed some spots.”

Satya tries her best not to look and averts her eyes to the pouches on the floor. She already feels far too warm, and his snarky attitude is not helping. “It’s far better than what it was. I think Mercy will find it acceptable.”

“Good. Maybe she’ll finally quit bloody pestering me now.” He runs his good hand through the nest of his hair, squeezing out rivulets of water. Drops spill down his shoulders and drip down the plane of his stomach. “What about you, then?”

“What about me?” she asks.

He sweeps a hand in front of himself, indicating his cleanliness. “You ‘find it acceptable’?”

More than acceptable, she thinks, but she quashes that before it can pry itself out of her mouth.

“It’s fine.” Satya attempts to steer her inner thoughts back toward her usual processes, but it proves to be increasingly difficult, and she hates it. The thick stench of chemical compounds has been stripped away from him, she notes; nothing but a cool and mellow scent lingers. “A definite improvement from earlier this evening. I doubt Mercy would bar you from dinner, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

Seeming somewhat satisfied with her response, Junkrat exits the stall in his uneven gait. He draws up to her, his incredible height setting him to tower over her head, water droplets beading down his ribs and hip bones. The ends of his mouth pull into this peculiar smile, that sort of knowing twinge from before, and she doesn’t know why he’s looking at her this way or why he’s suddenly so close or why his smell reminds her of open plains and grassy prairies.

“So, think of any prizes yet?” His grin shows off his teeth: blunt bicuspids, sculpted canines, gleaming gold, and all. “I got a couple in mind. Wanna hear ‘em?”

Satya doesn’t know when her pulse decided to skyrocket. “No. I thought I said I wasn’t going to be a part of this.”

“I’ll just keep ‘em a surprise, then,” he says. “Probably best that way. Bit more fun if you don’t know what to expect.”

“I don’t want to expect _anything_ ,” she insists. “I told you, I am not going to make a game out of death!”

“Aw, c’mon, that’s the wrong way to go about it. It’s not ‘making a game out of death.’” He holds his hands up and splays his fingers, coaxing her to focus on his face. “Right, okay, look here. Think of it this way: it’s about rewarding good decisions. Yeah? It’s like… encouraging teamwork. And you’re all about teamwork, right? S’what you was talking about before. Sticking your neck out for your mates, making sure they don’t get themselves heaps of bullets in their guts. That’s what this is about. Saving ‘em. Not dying.”

“But this is just for us,” says Satya, thinning her mouth into a frown. “Not the rest of the team.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Just for us.”

Junkrat stares down at her, water dripping down the column of his neck and trailing past the etching of his collarbone. His breaths are slow and even, ribcage drawing full, the hue of his eyes a quiet smoulder under the overhead lights. He’s close enough to where she can count the small birthmarks that dot his body—two, three, no, _five_ —and there is a buried shard of her that wants to map the rest.

“Well, not like we’re best mates or anything,” he amends with a shrug. “Y’know, I reckon we got off on the wrong foot. Bit of tension about. Disagreements. Teamwork sort of needs encouraging, wouldn’t you say?”

As much as Satya hates to admit it, he’s right. Ever since he and Roadhog arrived at Gibraltar, there has been a decent amount of conflict between herself and Junkrat. It had been his fault, of course, starting with what he did to her portion of the workshop, but it’s slowly been escalating into something she doesn’t want to pursue.

“All right,” she says, conceding with a short nod. “I agree with you.”

“Wait. Wait, wait, wait.” Junkrat seems taken aback; an incredulous sort of glee shapes his countenance and he seems to hunch inward at her admission. “You do?”

“Yes.” Satya draws a breathy inhale and meets his gaze. “You are right. Our professional relationship is not what it could be. There is a great deal of contention, and I feel that might be resolved through a team building exercise—such as the one you suggested.”

“Team building exercise?” He makes a snorting noise in the thick of his throat. “Ha! Oh, no, no, that’s good. Great. Never thought to call it that. Guess that’s what it is, though, ain’t it? Right. Well, if that’s what’ll make you say yes, then yeah, sure, team building exercise.”

“I _am_ saying yes, Junkrat.” With the flat of her right hand, Satya lightly smacks his belly right where his scar would be. The contact is brief, but there is no doubt: he’s far, far too warm, and it burns through the skin of her palm and scorches the valleys of her lifelines. “Although, I will say I’m starting to second guess my decision.”

“Oh, this is good. I _love_ it.” Junkrat laughs, the aurum in his mouth glimmering under the white lamplight. His voice exudes triumph and exorbitant delight. “See? I knew it. What’d I tell you?”

Rubbing the back of her hand to ease the lingering heat, Satya appraises him with a guarded stance. “Tell me what?”

Junkrat grins at her, manic and wild, his tongue tracing his teeth.

“ _Knew_ you’d come around.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art that has been made for this chapter by SUCH AMAZING LOVELY PEOPLE on tumblr -
> 
> @buttsmut - ["knew you'd come around"](http://buttsmut.tumblr.com/post/145892920277)


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be shorter, less boring, and more of a tie-in to what's next. It didn't work out that way, as you can see.
> 
> Next installment should make up for it. I hope. It's all uphill from here.

When Satya visits the workshop, Junkrat is sitting on the floor, surrounded by a slew of blast-proof cases.

His collection of reagents, shells, casings, and miscellaneous components are sorted into various spilling piles just within his reach. Satya doesn’t know how each has been categorized (if at all), as clashing materials steep in one another’s midst, but they must have some semblance of order to him; he keeps placing the same type of item in its apparently designated space with deft movements of his long fingers. She assumes the piles have been grouped up by usefulness, or at least by utilization frequency, but she can’t be certain. Compared to her choice and precise organizational methods, his inventory seems a hot disaster.

As she approaches, she finds that Junkrat has managed to keep himself relatively soot-free for the past twenty-four hours. His back to her, she can see the dappled freckles flecked across the expanse of his shoulders, the thick muscle pulling down beneath his shoulder blades, the arch of his spine as he curls forward in his efforts. His blond hair flares out in an unruly array, choice ends charred charcoal, and as he threads his hand through, she thinks she can see the singed black of his nails fading into a more flesh-like color. The hard-light blade of her creation still remains holstered to the back of his belt, she notes, and for a brief moment, she considers swooping down and snatching it—and then she remembers the heat of his skin, the gripping warmth against her palm, and she thinks better of it.

Junkrat mumbles something unintelligible to himself ahead of her. He has a fistful of grenades in his prosthetic fingers, gripped tight between the mechanical joints, and he sets them one by one into a deep, foot-length case at his right. Assembled mines and bigger explosives fill the bodies of the other scattered cases, nestled and tucked in among layers of thick grey foam. It strikes Satya as odd that he should choose to be storing his creations now, as he seemed quite content to leave them strewn about before. What changed?

When Junkrat realizes he’s not alone, his back pulls taut and he glances over his shoulder. With his left hand, he gives a short wave. “G’day,” he says. “Ready for some fun? Gorilla bloke says we’ll be loading up soon. Getting excited just thinking about it.”

“I suppose. I’m not sure I would call these missions ‘fun,’ though.” She draws up behind him, the sleek heels of her uniform clicking across the cool metal floor. “What are you doing?”

“Ah, you know. Packing for the big adventure.” Junkrat snatches a few more grenades from one of the piles and stuffs them into their appropriate case. “The monkey went off on some rant about the ship and my stock being a liability or something. Dunno. Got me these things, said to load my stuff with it, I said ‘what’s in it for me,’ he said ‘we’re already paying you, what more do you want,’ I said ‘well, bit more would be nice, mate,’ but I don’t think he liked that. Got real big. Real loud. Feisty. Reckoned right about then was a good time to leave, so I just saw myself out.”

Despite herself, Satya finds it difficult not to snicker. Perhaps it’s mean spirited, but she relishes in the fact that Winston’s hired mercenary annoys him just as much as he annoys her. A small token of recompense, she decides; if she has to endure his rash behavior and impulsive decisions, so must everyone else.

Seeming finished, Junkrat plants his hands on the floor in front of him and pushes himself to his feet in a swift arc. He flips the case nearest to him shut with his peg leg before hooking his thumbs in his belt loops and shimmying his trousers upward. The jingle and shifting of the contents of his pouches sounds through the empty workshop, and Satya can’t help but notice the lean muscle sculpting up his sides and along the expanse of his back, straining beneath the lines of his harness.

“Right, so,” he says, plucking up the canteen from his belt, “you ready to start our lovely little team building exercise? I reckon today’s a good day to start. New day, new mission, new bombs. Should be a blast.”

“I am participating because I want to improve our cooperation,” Satya reminds him with an even tone. Eyeing the container as he takes a long drink, she starts to wonder what sort of catastrophe she’s getting herself into by agreeing to his ridiculous proposal. “It will benefit the rest of the team if we’re able to work together. I don’t care for whatever ‘prizes’ you have in mind.”

“But that’s what’s supposed to make it fun,” he says, wiping his mouth with his wrist. “Extra bit of encouragement.”

“Believe me,” she says, “the exercise itself is encouragement enough.”

“Ah, so saving me is its own reward or something like that, yeah? Didn’t know you felt that way. That don’t mean you can just go losing on purpose so you don’t get nothing, though. That’s not how this is gonna work.” He grins as he takes another light sip from the canteen. His adam’s apple dips as he swallows, and she notes that the bruise that once decorated his neck has just about vanished. “And just so you know, I still expect a little something if I get to five, so don’t think that’s gonna get you off the hook for thinking up prizes.”

Satya refuses to humor him any further. Folding her arms, she gives the container in his hand a disapproving stare. “Junkrat,” she says, “it’s nine-thirty in the morning.”

“What? The hell does that have to do with prizes?” His brow beetles in puzzlement and it takes him a moment to understand what she’s referencing. When he realizes what she’s looking at, he mouths a soft “oh” and offers the canteen with an outstretched hand. “What, you want a swig? It’s good stuff.”

“I am _not_ drinking alcohol right before leaving for a mission,” she says, wrinkling her nose with distaste. “And neither should you. How do you expect to be ready and alert if your senses are impaired? Certainly not a way to win your team building exercise.”

Junkrat chuckles. “Oh, go on, give it a go. At least a whiff. It’s good. Promise.”

“I hardly see why this is necessary,” says Satya, but when he tucks the open mouth under her nose, she pauses in surprise. There is no distinct bitter tang of alcohol, she finds; instead, a sweet and gentle scent wells up from within, smelling faintly of cream and some sort of fruit. Whatever sort of drink is inside, it’s definitely not what she had been anticipating, and she’s not sure how she feels about it.

“Tea,” he supplies, his voice shaped into a satisfied lilt. “What, you thought it was some sort of grog, didn’t you?”

“That’s definitely something I expected from someone of your character,” she admits, waving the canteen away.

“My character? My _character_ , she says. Should I be offended?” He caps the container and hitches it back onto his belt. Licking his thumb, he rubs at a corner of his mouth and across his bottom lip. “Y’know, I think I’m offended. Last time I go offering you anything. Trying to be all nice in light of teamwork and all, but you’re bloody hard to work with.”

The heavy sounds of Torbjörn plodding into the workshop prevent Satya from forming a retort. His battlegear has already been donned; the thick metal of the armor encases his body, the versatile claw for maintaining his machines primed and spinning. The harsh light from the overhead lamps illuminates the cool crimson with a vivid gleam.

“Ah, there you are!” Exasperation etches the wrinkles of his forehead. He treads over to where Junkrat stands, peering over the splayed groups of shells and compounds spread about the flooring. “Winston said we’re to start loading the ship. Whatever you’re planning to bring, time to get it aboard. We’ll be leaving in a little over an hour.” He glances to Satya and gives her a brief nod of salutation. “Morning, Symmetra.”

“Good morning,” she replies.

Torbjörn reaches down and grabs the closed case with his right hand. “Come along,” he says, lifting it upward. “Hurry up, beanpole. Ship’s not going to load itself, you know. We have other supplies to haul to the hangar, and Reinhardt is taking his time.”

“Ah, shut it, mate,” says Junkrat. He dips down and latches three other cases shut before scooping one under an arm and the others between his hands. “Bombs are delicate. I don’t go telling you how to go about packing your little guns.”

“They’re not _little_ ,” says Torbjörn.

“Right, sure they ain’t,” says Junkrat, edging into a laugh.

Satya watches them as they head toward the workshop’s entrance, Torbjörn shuffling forward and Junkrat loping along close behind. The glint of the hard-light blade across the back of his belt catches her gaze under the workshop’s lights, and she finds her mind drifting to places it shouldn’t: wet and cross-legged in the shower stall, drops drizzling down the length of his neck, the vibrant color of his eyes, the slope of his stomach, the ridges of his hips, a towel draped across his thighs.

Everything is far too clear, too close, and she can’t pry it loose.

“See you on the ship,” calls Junkrat from over his shoulder.

With her heart against her ribs, Satya prays she won’t sit beside him again.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a blast to write despite there being only one explosion. Junkrat would be sad.
> 
> Have I mentioned Junkrat's speech is hard to get down? Because it is.

Junkrat earns his second point under the black expanse of Ilios’s midnight sky.

The moon punctures the world in a sleek crescent, stars blotted away by the haloed glow of distant city lights. The ocean sweeps in on the silver beach below and envelops the chugging of concentrated gunfire in gentle swells. White cobbled streets clack under Satya’s heels as she rounds a corner with Tracer sprinting by her side; the Talon agents had been ready, _waiting_ , and struck with a fierce and ruthless efficiency that had utterly decimated their offense.

“Almost there,” says Tracer, spinning about to provide some cover fire with the precise work of her pistols. “Torby’s nest is just ahead! We’ve almost got it, love, just a bit further!” She blips backward in a brilliant streak of orange and blue, hurls a sticky mine into the thick of their pursuers, and then winds forward again as if she had never left. “That ought to keep ‘em busy. C’mon!”

The tang of sea breeze and blood kindles the stinging fires in Satya’s lungs as the explosion detonates. Pins stick to the undersides of her diaphragm, pinching taut, and she can’t seem to suck in air fast enough. She slips down alleyways and sidestreets, legs pumping, Tracer leading the way with the sapphire glow of her accelerator. Another cluster of agents bounds in behind them, and Satya doesn’t have much left; with her fingers on the trigger of the photon projector, she channels it into a charged shot, twists over her shoulder, and fires it directly into their midst.

The heavy sounds of bodies crumpling onto the cobble echo off of the buildings behind her. She doesn’t know if the shot was powerful enough to kill—it shouldn’t have been, not with that short amount of charge, it couldn’t have—but the adrenaline threading through her veins and filling her windpipe clamors for her survival. Through the azure painted midnight of her visor, Satya holsters her weapon and keeps moving.

Before long, the familiar construct of Torbjörn’s turret makes its way into view in the corner of a walled off market square. The churning automatic fire drums through her ears as it dispatches straggling operatives behind her. Tracer blinks ahead, carrying news to the rest, and Satya slows to a walk once she enters the limits of their makeshift defense. Drawing in tight inhales, she holds a hand to her stomach and tries to will her heart rate into placidity. At the other side of the square, she can discern the vague shapes of Tracer, Mercy, Reinhardt, and Torbjörn underneath the faint carved moonlight. She’s not sure where the others are; after Talon responded in kind with their own ambush, Genji, Winston, and the two junkers haven’t reappeared.

She hopes they’re all okay.

Satya takes her pulse with an index finger to her neck. Using controlled breaths, she forces the noise in her head to still and for her body to come down from the adrenaline high. As her eyes comb the white walls of the square, she makes mental notes on potential spots for turret placement: just behind Torbjörn’s set up, the fruit stall in the center of the market, the bushes over toward the back alley. She recalls their internal architecture, the shapes that serve as their building blocks, their inner workings, the curves of their overall design, and with her right hand pulling apart from the metal on her left, she starts to weave a geometric wireframe.

Placing her defenses serves as a more placating exercise. It’s something she can pool her focus in, something she can do without much energy or thought, and she uses the time spent conjuring and setting the devices to center herself again. The scattered gunfire in the distance cracks through, but she pushes it back; she has control here, she can plan their defense, and then they can develop a way to find their missing teammates.

The scuffing sound of footsteps snaps Satya’s attention to the back alley. Compressing a fourth wireframe between her fingers, she slides her hand onto her photon projector and tugs it from its place at her hip. With cautious steps, she slides a shard of ammunition into reality and presses it into the projector’s chamber. It’s too dark for her to see properly, but she thinks she can make out the shadow of a figure approaching between the stretch of buildings.

She is about to call Genji’s name, but she doesn’t recognize the gait. Genji holds himself tall, his shoulders back and chest out; this shadow is slower, larger, hunched, and the telltale green radiance of Genji’s cybernetic armor is missing. It’s not Junkrat, either. The steps are heavier, thicker, and spaced evenly apart, and the silhouette is not quite so thin.

_Someone is here._

Crushing her fingers on the trigger, she leaps backward and charges a shot. The light emitting from the projector reveals a tall man clad in black Talon armor and a facemask, a small firearm clutched by his hip. As soon she releases the burst of energy, he leaps at her—he dips past the orb, harmless, his legs launching him toward her at an unbelievable speed, and before she can react, he has her in a lock with his arm choked around her neck and a gloved palm across her mouth. Dropping the projector, she clasps his forearm in attempt to pry him off, but his strength is too much, and she finds herself being dragged back into the cloaked darkness of the alleyway.

Why didn’t she warn the others, she scolds herself—she’s always so careful, so precise, so _aware_ —but there is nothing she can do now short of fight.

Struggling in his grasp, Satya gains an edge of footing and stamps her heel straight into the man’s boot. She thinks she can hear a crunch, a glorious sound, but he hisses in her ear and wrings her tighter. The pressure from his arm increases against her throat and the hand clamps down hard as she heaves her weight into his foot; her heart is hammering and she can’t breathe and black stars begin to burst behind her eyes. When his hand whips away, she draws in a gasping rush of air, thank the gods, she has to scream, but a punctuated _click_ jams through her senses and then there’s ringing, ringing, nothing but ringing, her right leg hurts, why does it _hurt_ , what is _happening_ , and then the cold metal of a gun presses against her temple and her blood cools to ice.

In the chill of the midnight air, everything slows to an ethereal halt. Her eardrums beat in harmony with her heart and the shrill aftershock of the gunshot clamors over the crashing of the ocean. Satya breathes, trying to steady herself, to recover, but everything is corroding and crumbling away to sinking seafoam. She can’t use her hard-light, her weapon has been left, her own strength is nothing; she will die at the hands of a nameless Talon agent due to her carelessness, and there is nothing she can do about it.

Perhaps the gods will be kind and this will be painless.

It’s then that she hears a familiar pattering somewhere above. It clacks over the chiming din, closer and out of sight. Her pulse jumpstarts behind her breastbone, but she dares not move. The pain in her leg amplifies and she clenches her jaws and her nails dig crescent moons into the flesh of her palm, and the metal kissing her temple presses in.

A sharp clatter rains from above. Delighted laughter trails it down, and she recognizes that timbre anywhere.

“Let her _go_ , you mangy drongo!”

Satya hears the sickening crack of her aggressor’s jaw being struck. The arm around her neck slips down and the gun spins away, clashing against the moonbathed cobblestones. She’s alive, she’s _free_ , she’s not going to die—

And she’s on the ground, searing pain spasming through her right leg. Gritting her teeth, she leans forward and tries to see what damage was done. Her legging is ruined, she finds; an open wound runs fresh in the meat of her calf. Although she can’t see it, blood appears to have dripped down into her shoe, sticking to the underside of her foot. The thought is upsetting, but she supposes ruined clothing is far better than having brain matter on the street.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watches the form of Roadhog drawing up from farther down the back alley. She doesn’t think she’s ever been so happy to see him. His heavy steps and the jingle of his hook resound along the building walls, coupled with the pulpy thrashing of the Talon agent under Junkrat’s wiry weight.

“Fff—” Junkrat’s teeth sink into his lower lip as he nurses his knuckles and climbs off the agent. “Fuck, mate. Should’ve used the other hand. Really should’ve used the other hand. Dunno why I used this one. Wasn’t thinking. Ugh.” Fist clenched against his belly, he beckons to his partner with metal fingers. “Oi, Roadie, do me a favor, will you? C’mere and end this tosser.”

Roadhog grunts in tacit approval. He slides his shotgun out of its holster and treads up to the moaning agent with ponderous steps, hook chain jangling behind him. With one hand, he aims the mouth of the gun at the man’s face, croaks a deep laugh, and squeezes the trigger.

Satya can’t watch.

“Symmetra, you all right?” Junkrat steps over to her, hunched in a curious stance. Shadows sculpt his face under the punctured moon and soft light pours through his wild mess of hair. With the tire bomb still missing from their previous mission, his grenade launcher is slung across his back to keep his hands free. “Heard a right nasty shot couple of roofs over. He get you?”

“Junkrat,” says Satya, not even bothering to hide her smile, “you must really stop wandering about rooftops.”

“Yeah? That right?” Junkrat grins down at her in the dark. “Well, looks like my rooftop wandering went and saved your pretty head. Suppose that’s a point for me, ain’t it?”

“That might be so, but I can’t walk.” She pats down to her leg where the wound wells up in streams of black. Pain crawls up her nerves, and it hurts to move. “This was very unfortunate. And my own fault. I misjudged.”

“What you blaming yourself for?” He drops down beside her in a kneel and takes a quick once over of her injury. His prosthetic hand hovers over the wound, but doesn’t touch. “Well, can’t see much here. Dunno about it being your fault, but let’s get you to Ol’ Angel Wings. She’ll get you right. Where’s the rest of the lot? They here?”

“Just ahead.” She gestures behind her with a thumb. “I told you, I misjudged.”

“Right, right, whatever,” he says. “C’mon, let’s get you patched up.”

As if on cue, Roadhog stoops down with arms open to collect her. The knot of his hair shines silver under the moon and shapes soft highlights on his brown skin. The purr of his heavy breathing pulls through his mask, traipsing shivers down the length of her vertebrae, but Junkrat brushes him aside.

“Nah, mate,” he says. “I saved her. She’s mine to carry back. We got this thing going, right? Tied now.”

“What about your hand?” asks Satya. Her heartbeat is a gentle thrum under her skin.

“S’all right.” Junkrat sucks in a sharp inhale as he flexes his fingers. “It’s fine. Bit banged up, but it’s fine. I got you. You got me last time, remember? At the ruins. Just paying you back. Teamwork, right? S’what this is about. Team building.”

Slowly, he scoots closer and starts to scoop her up. With a delicate gentleness she’s not seen, he curls his prosthetic arm around her back and the muscle of his forearm tucks beneath her knees. She can feel his chest rise against her shoulder as he breathes, and as he situates himself and gets ready to stand, she notes the mellow scent of him coupled with the tang of sweat and powder. It’s neither unpleasant nor overwhelming, and almost comfortingly familiar.

“Right, watch yourself,” he says. “Probably gonna hurt. Most likely gonna hurt. Might wanna plan on it so nothing gets surprising. Right, okay, one, two, and _up_ we go.”

Satya breathes between her teeth as her leg moves; agony writhes up through her muscles and the world seems to sew in blackness as everything coils up and spasms. Junkrat waits a moment for her to recover, peering at her under the moonlight with fire in his eyes. When the sharpness subsides, she gives him a slight nod, and he starts toward the market square with Roadhog at his back.

It’s a strange feeling, she thinks, being cradled against him. She allows her cheek to rest against his collarbone and lets her arms go slack by his sternum, steeping in the heady warmth of his skin. She isn’t a petite woman like Tracer, but she tends to forget just how tall Junkrat is with his poor posture. And his _strength_. Gods. Exactly how much of his skinny frame is muscle?

“Oi, Mercy!” he shouts. “Got yourself another patient here!”

In the opposite corner of the square among the gathered members of the team, Mercy spins about at the mention of her name. Blinding light flourishes from the Valkyrie’s wings, and in an instant, she whisks across the length of the market, staff in hand.

“Symmetra!” She hurries over to Junkrat’s side, shoes clicking on the cobble. “Goodness, what happened? You were here just a moment ago!”

“Some bloke snatched her up and decided he felt like crippling her first,” says Junkrat, his voice rumbling someplace beneath her ear. His heartbeat is a constant, almost intoxicating rhythm, and Satya finds herself counting each pulse. “Got her leg real good. Don’t think she can stand. Can’t put no weight on it, neither. Nothing like that. Winced a lot just picking her up.”

Mercy peels down Satya’s legging to inspect the wound, threading twinges of pain as she works. Her fingers touch with a tentative tenderness by her calf, but it doesn’t prevent it from hurting. “That will need to come out,” she says. “Thankfully, it seems to be shallow. Here, please put her down. I need to see better.”

Junkrat glances to Satya. He’s questioning if it’s okay, she knows, but she doesn’t want to let go. Her injury is throbbing and the world seems to be crushing in and she feels so very tired; too much running, fighting, gunfire, sights, sounds, _everything_. With a nod, she focuses on his scent and tries not to let the pain overwhelm her when she’s set down against the cold street.

Mercy worries over her with dexterous hands and the remainder of the group catches up from across the square, but it doesn’t register anymore.

Perhaps it’s the pain, the shock, the delirium, but she finds herself missing his heat.


	20. Chapter 20

Satya wakes on the flight back to Gibraltar.

The world has been spun into a blur. Machinery thrums under the soles of her feet and pulls through her bones in gentle tendrils. The overhead lights have been dimmed; the tactician table in the center lies dormant, holograms dispersed. Through the window of the dropship door, the faint hue of pink and blue bleed across the horizon; the ship chases the sunrise, shafts of warm light waterfalling through the cockpit and soaking into the main cabin.

As everything begins to sharpen, Satya can discern the shadowed forms of her teammates harnessed into their seats across the room. Reinhardt, Torbjörn, and Roadhog occupy the spaces, followed shortly by the armored frame of Genji. She doesn’t remember his return, but she remembers the flash of his shurikens as he fended off pursuing agents, the sweep of his swords as he struck through a throng of black-clad operatives, and the eerie green glow of the serpent that crawled up his arms when the team fought to board the ORCA. Through the faint light, she notes that his visor has grown dark, and absently wonders if he still requires sleep despite his cybernetic enhancements.

To her left, the shapes of Winston and Mercy can be seen toward the back of the ship. The Valkyrie has been disassembled, and Mercy is left in the black undersuit with her hair roped in a loose tail. Their voices are hushed whispers—discussing the poor results of their efforts, she suspects—and judging by Winston’s terse hand gestures, the discourse must not be going well. Their last few deployments have been very successful, but this one will inevitably bring down morale.

Satya shifts from her headrest and attempts to move, but soon realizes there is a thick blanket tucked around her belly and over the length of her legs. She can’t see the wound on her right, but pain lingers heavily through her nerves in prickling waves. Mercy must have extracted the bullet at the very least, but she’s not sure if there was enough time to heal the injury. She thinks she can feel the tightness of a tourniquet wrapped around the area, but the whole limb is in a state of sensory overload and she finds it too difficult to tell.

Looks like she won’t be moving anywhere by herself. For now, at least.

To her right, the sound of a light snore purrs up beside her. Startled, she lifts her cheek to find that the headrest she had been utilizing was none other than Junkrat’s shoulder. He’s in a deep sleep, she realizes, his head leaned against the wall of the ship for support. His worn notepad sits in his lap, flipped open to a half-finished sketch of what she assumes to be a new model of mine. The broken pencil is tucked just behind the shell of his ear and his left hand splays across the smudged page, blots of what look like dried blood sticking to the underside and down the edge of his glove.

Ilios floods back to her in a smear of silver midnight. She remembers him crushed atop the agent, throttling him into pulp; she remembers him gazing down at her with moondrenched hair and charcoal shoulders; she remembers the drum of his heartbeat beneath her ear and the warmth of his skin and the gravity of his voice as he filled Mercy in. Adrenaline had etched the feeling of him throughout her inner workings, and she finds herself feeling somehow bereft.

Whether she likes it or not, Junkrat saved her. If he hadn’t shown up on the rooftop, she would have been another dead body on the street. He was reckless and impulsive and violent, and yet courageous and level-headed despite the situation’s panic. Her aggressor was taken by surprise, disarmed, rendered immobile, and then promptly dispatched with an astonishing amount of efficiency. Despite the madness, his gesture was admirable, and she’d be lying if she said she didn’t appreciate it.

Satya has to remind herself: he’s a mercenary. A hired soldier. This is what he does. He’s being paid to help, and he did his job without question. She should expect no less, even if he did win a point in their little team building exercise. Still, he wasn’t obligated to carry her. He could have allowed Roadhog to scoop her up and take her to Mercy, and yet he seemed more than willing to do it himself. She can’t understand why. A strange sense of pride? Or perhaps he’s taking their exercise seriously, after all?

Something twists near her stomach, and a sinking sensation grips at her insides. If they’re really going to go through with this, it occurs to Satya that she hasn’t the slightest idea what sort of prize he’d want if he reached five. His love of explosives and penchant for causing destruction seem to eclipse all other aspects of his life—not that she’s really learned about any other aspects. The only thing she knows for certain is that he once lived in the Outback, and even that is rather vague on the details.

How do you select something for someone you know nothing about?

Junkrat shifts in his sleep, the notepad sliding to the other end of his lap with its pages untucking from behind its back. He doesn’t snore with every inhale, she notes; they’re soft, almost nasally, and seem to be only when he takes deeper breaths. While his cleanliness didn’t last as long as she would have liked, she can still discern sparse freckles clustered on his shoulders and beneath his eyes under a thin layer of soot. The column of his throat shows taut tendons and thick muscle where it collects by his collarbone as he leans against the wall. His prosthetic is pressed between himself and the armrest, fist clenching as if he were suffering a dream.

Pain continues to pulse through her leg. Exhaustion tugs downward at her eyelids and through her limbs, and the constant rumble of the engines beneath lulls her into a hypnagogic trance. The cabin bleeds through color spectrums under golden sunshafts and there is a sense of displacement between herself and reality as her body demands rest. The feeling of being watched scrapes on the outskirts of her consciousness, but she’s too tired to care.

Before too long, Satya closes her eyes and succumbs.

Dawn is close, and Junkrat’s shoulder is so very warm.


	21. Chapter 21

“You are very lucky, Symmetra.”

Mercy sits by Satya’s bed under the cool lights of the infirmary, scribbling on a set of paperwork attached to the front of a clipboard. She still remains in the black undersuit she wears beneath the Valkyrie, her lab coat tossed on overtop of it. With a faint and tired smile, she expels a sigh and brushes a blond lock out of her eyes.

“Junkrat told me what happened,” she says, and pockets the pen into a fold of her coat. “It’s a relief I only have a leg wound to heal. I am going to tell you what I told him when he was injured: you _must_ be more careful. Medicine has come a long way, but there are limits.”

“It was my fault. I didn’t fully realize the danger. I should have called to the others.” Satya stretches out her right leg over the white sheets, testing the extent of the recovering muscles as she rotates her foot. Both her legging and her shoe have been removed to let Mercy perform her work. She knows she shouldn’t feel like this, but embarrassment at her own incompetence burns beneath her skin. “I understand what happened now. I won’t make a mistake like that again.”

“Everyone makes mistakes. That is part of life. If I have to set a broken leg or extract a few bullets, I accept that as part of my job.” She lifts herself from the chair, holding the clipboard to her stomach. “However, we must make a point to learn from our mistakes. If we choose to make the same mistakes over and over again, well…” Mercy shrugs. “There may be bigger problems, then.”

Suppressing a snicker, Satya nods in agreement. “I appreciate the help. Thank you for tending to me.”

“It’s not a problem. I do what I must to keep this team healthy.” Mercy leans down to check the place where the bullet had punctured into her calf, the pads of her fingers sweeping gently across the skin. “Everything seems to have sealed up just fine. There may be a slight scar, but I don’t think so. It could have been a far worse wound. It looks like the agent’s aim must have been off, or he may have been struggling. The shot was not precise or clean at all.”

“I believe his foot was in distress at the time. He shouldn’t have come after me. I hope it was broken.” Satya sets her jaw and folds her hands together, rubbing at her knuckles with the metal across her fingers. The sensation of a thick arm hooking around her neck surfaces out of the billowing black, and she swallows out of reflex. “I would have been dead if not for Junkrat. He jumped from a _roof_ and eliminated that man.”

“He told me that as well,” says Mercy. “Seemed quite proud of it, in fact. He can be very arrogant if the situation permits.”

Satya bites at the inside of her mouth. “I don’t understand his motives.”

“What do you mean?” Mercy straightens her posture and tilts her head in bewilderment. The overhead lights soak her hair in cool platinum, streaking down its length and across her fringe. “He’s part of our team. You did the same for him, did you not? You helped stabilize a fatal wound until I could see to him. You prevented his death, just as he prevented yours. Isn’t that proper cooperation? Shouldn’t teammates act in the best interest of their own?”

Yes, she supposes. That’s how things should work. A cohesive team looks out for one another and does anything within their power to keep themselves functioning, even risking their lives for another member. Ideally, all units should work in concert to achieve the most efficiency through their efforts, but humans are not so perfect in their synergy.

Still, the goal of Junkrat’s proposal is to foster partnership and unity despite glaring differences. And while it is a good idea, in theory, the thought of him performing even more impulsive stunts to save her life makes her steep in rigid discomfort.

“I may be looking too far into it,” she admits with a knit brow. “I suppose fully trusting hired mercenaries is difficult.”

“Symmetra,” says Mercy, “might I remind you that you are also a hired mercenary?”

“A technicality.” Satya stares at the once-injury that had marred her right leg. She rotates her foot once more, and the muscle in her calf tightens and releases in a gradual rhythm. “I left Vishkar on sabbatical so I could pursue the efforts of this organization’s recall. I am not accepting pay as Junkrat or his partner does. This is for the good of our world, not for greed.”

Mercy sighs. “Well, you do have a point. Their loyalty is as much as we offer to pay. Still, they do their job well enough. I’ve seen no reason to distrust them. Junkrat may be a little mad, but he does seem to take his work seriously, which is more than what can be said for other mercenaries.”

“But he acts like a child,” says Satya. “He’s filthy and he keeps his spaces a mess. He’s insane, impetuous, and a total disaster. I’ve never seen a grown man behave so poorly.”

“And yet you seem to be with him quite often.”

Satya bristles, her spine straightening in a quick snap. Something knots in the back of her throat, her nails sink into the flesh of her palm, and the thumping of her heart could be a hammer against her eardrums. She doesn’t know why her first impulse is to scoop the sheets over her head and _hide_ , but it is, and she _hates_ it.

“Not by choice,” she says, unable to temper back the bite in her voice. “I do not choose to be stuck with him in combat, nor do I choose to be stuck with him outside of it. His space is beside mine in the workshop. I am forced to sit with him because no one else will. He is a _wreck_.”

“It was just an observation,” says Mercy, contrition shaping her countenance. “I meant nothing by it. I hope I didn’t offend you.”

Satya shifts her gaze to the far wall among the various instruments, unable to look her in the eye. Her heartbeat knocks rhythms under her ribcage and her mouth is dry and there are indents puncturing the continuity of her lifelines. “I suggest keeping future observations to yourself,” she murmurs.

“Very well,” says Mercy. “I understand.”

She tucks the clipboard under her arm, a warm smile curving the corners of her mouth. There is no malice there, no ill intent, no reason to lash out, and yet Satya feels overwhelmed by a fierce defensiveness that she cannot name.

“Well, as for your injury,” continues Mercy, “you may rest here for a short while. I wouldn’t put your full weight on it just yet. Keep in mind, Winston wants everyone together for a debriefing at 1400 hours, so that should give you a few hours of sleep, at least. I think everything should be fully healed by then. I will check on you when I can.”

With a light and graceful bow, Mercy excuses herself from the infirmary.

Drawing in a deep breath, Satya lies back into the pillows and shuts her eyes, the steady beat of her heart pulsing through her neck. Silence encroaches around her and she focuses on the hum of distant machinery chugging somewhere within the outpost’s walls. The pain in her leg has absconded thanks to Mercy’s incredible talents, and she supposes the way she reacted serves as poor thanks for all of her hard work, but gods, she can’t help but be angry. She doesn’t _want_ to be associated with Junkrat. Regardless of whatever game he’s roped her into, she doesn’t accept how he behaves or his messy habits, and she definitely doesn’t accept his beliefs on how the world works.

Unbidden, the flight back to Gibraltar melds in beneath her eyelids. She remembers the quiet sunrise on his body, the blotches of dried blood on the fabric of his glove, the faint sounds of soft snores. She remembers the cadence of his breaths, she remembers the exhaustion painting his face, and she remembers the warmth of his shoulder as he slept.

Why is she doing this to herself?


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This didn't turn out how I wanted and it's far less exciting than originally anticipated, but the next one should make up for it. Or so I hope.

Debriefing is a rather unpleasant business.

Satya sits toward the center of the room, wedged between Tracer and Reinhardt. The holographic interface of Winston’s computer spans the length of the massive tactics table in a vivid blue heads-up display, but she can’t focus on its projected imagery. The air is too warm, too stifling, the company too close, and despite current seating arrangements, the meeting is laden with a thick, palpable tension.

Zenyatta and Genji are present, and Junkrat is not pleased. While any initial arguments were promptly quashed by Reinhardt’s bellowing voice and Winston’s severe stares, nothing stops Junkrat from baring his teeth and giving nasty looks from his corner of the darkened conference room. He slumps back in a leather-bound desk chair with an irritated scowl, an ankle resting across the metal of his knee, and he tips the seat back and forth in a gentle rocking rhythm as if he were hard pressed to keep himself occupied.

Roadhog sits by his wiry charge in solidarity. Chair back set perfect and straight, his hands fold neatly upon the girth of his stomach as he draws in steady inhales through his mask. He doesn’t seem to share Junkrat’s vehement displeasure at the situation, but his expression is obscured and his body language does little to convey his thoughts. All Satya can assume is that he shows far more restraint than his friend.

To her left, Genji and Zenyatta remain collected against the opposite edge of the room, maximizing the distance between themselves and the junkers. Genji had insisted Zenyatta be present for this gathering—she’s not sure why, although she strongly suspects the Omnic monk will be accompanying them on their next deployment—and so the two of them sit cross-legged in their respective chairs, visor and prayer orbs emanating with soft and pulsing glows. Neither show any reaction to Junkrat’s juvenile behavior, and she supposes that’s best. Another repeat of the mess hall incident would be a catastrophe in such close quarters.

An hour and a half of tedium crawls by. Reviewing tactics, results, and future mission plans takes far longer than necessary under the strained atmosphere. Hot scowls stare from across the room for the duration of Winston’s overview, stretching far into input and commentary from the team. Although Zenyatta avoids questions and remarks that might be construed as inflammatory, Junkrat seems content to burn a hole through the monk’s skull through the impotent power of death glares.

Satya closes her eyes and prays for everything to end soon.

“Well, here’s some good news to wrap things up.” Winston adjusts his glasses and offers an optimistic smile to the rest of the group. “Another agent has answered the recall. I didn’t think we’d hear from her considering the circumstances, but she said she’s on her way. I think most of you remember Mei-Ling. We should be expecting her within the next few days.”

Winston fiddles with something on the monitor in front of him, and then crisp blocks of azure text materialize in the center of the room. Satya glances over the file; it details different accomplishments and parameters, headed by the name ‘Mei-Ling Zhou’ at the very top in capital letters. A small image of her appears just to the side of the displayed text, a cropped picture of her face that shows her buried in a thick parka with a cheery smile.

“Really? She contacted you?” Tracer hops up in her seat with a fierce grin, the sapphire of her accelerator gleaming in the dim light. “It’s been _ages_. What’s she been up to? Been snowed in somewhere about the south pole, hasn’t she?”

“She told me she’s been trying to reestablish the Eco watchpoints ever since the Antarctic outpost was destroyed,” says Winston. “Difficult work, from what I understand. She didn’t tell me her exact location, but she assured me it wouldn’t take more than three days to reach us. I assume she has some sort of transportation already secured.”

“Oh, this is wonderful news!” Mercy claps her hands in excitement further down the row. “I’m so glad. It will be so good to have Mei back. She’s been sorely missed. I thought for sure she wouldn’t reply, but this is such a pleasant surprise!”

As the old Overwatch members converse over Mei’s return, Satya continues to skim the length of the floating text. From what she’s able to glean, Mei’s expertise is climatology—a noble pursuit, she decides, with the world’s current state—and she carries a type of advanced tech that allows the user to partake in what sounds like weather manipulation. The concept is bizarre, if she’s honest, but Satya doesn’t deny that something like that could prove very useful in the future if used during deployments, especially with how their previous attempt turned out. If the Talon agents had suddenly experienced a blizzard in lukewarm Ilios, Winston might have had a better chance at securing the intel they had been searching for.

After everyone has been dismissed (in considerably higher spirits than before), Satya exits the conference room with the rest of the group. In a gradual pace so as not to aggravate her leg, she traverses the halls toward the workshop door. Her body still yearns for rest, and yet she feels she’s slept far too much. A part of her clamors to be awake, productive, preoccupied; she still has unfinished schematics that require completion, and some practice would do her some good.

The workshop is silent and empty. To the left, Torbjörn’s various tools, turrets, and miscellaneous components encompass the ample table space. Reinhardt’s giant suit of armor lies dormant in the far corner, held upright and proper by a great metal frame. His colossal hammer rests just beside it, the handle supported against the wall. Junkrat’s mess spans the right half of the room, just as haphazard and cluttered as it was when they’d left. Spools of wire, halved shells, and bottles of indiscernible powders litter the floor, coupled with leftover blast-proof cases Junkrat had left behind. Her space, safe and sacred and unique, nestles right between both worlds of chaos.

When she approaches the length of table and shelving she’d reclaimed as her own, something catches her eye. She never leaves things out of place or forgets to put items away; everything has its appropriate living space, aligned just so, schematics stored in a particular way. And yet, amongst all of the order and harmony she’d carved out for herself, a small item waits for her in the table’s center.

It’s an empty casing, she finds. It closely resembles the one Junkrat had given her on their second mission as gratitude for saving his skin: cherry red, halves welded tight, hollow within. White paint graces this one’s surface, this time depicting a face with its tongue darting out from the side of its mouth. As she picks it up and rotates it between her thumb and forefinger, she discovers that a note has been tucked beneath it. With her right hand, she unfolds the shabby paper—it’s from his notepad, she realizes; it’s worn and smudged and unkempt and so very soft with age—and reads the text scribbled inside:

 _HOPe YOUR ReCOVeRY iS A_ **_bLASt_** _!_ ** _  
_**_\- JUNKrAT!_

Satya snorts. He likes puns? Really? No, of course he likes puns. That should have been obvious. She’s been belated in her revelations, but she’s noticed him slipping similar things into occasional conversation, and she doesn’t know what to do with herself. In spite of his childish behavior, his narrow prejudices against Omnics, his apparent madness; in spite of everything she’s encountered from him thus far, she hadn’t expected… _this_.

Whatever this is.

Turning the shell about, she inspects the ivory-painted face. It was done with care, or so it seems, and she wonders where he acquired the paint and brushes from until she spies a small set of colors across the room. She supposes they’re his—she _hopes_ he wouldn’t steal—although she doesn’t know how he could have found them in this disaster. While his inventory has been sorted into jumbled piles, there doesn’t seem to be any design or method to them that she can piece together. Still, regardless of how it’s organized, it’s clear he loves his craft. She supposes that’s better than most things, even if his untidiness is starting to encroach upon her portion of the floor.

Glancing back to the note, Satya reads it over once more. Meshed images of him leaping from rooftops and flinging mines and grinning under the sun burn beneath her eyes: his hair is wildfire, gold gleaming from his mouth; grenades clench between his fingers and explosions eclipse hot amber and his body becomes engulfed by plumes of smoke and ash.

A smile edges at the corners of her mouth as she herds a coil of wire to the side with her shoe. Something flutters right beside her lungs, nesting close, and her grip on the casing tightens.

Even if he is a mad bomber, she thinks, the gesture is still appreciated.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Zenyatta. He is good for the soul.

The crack of explosions rumbles in the distance, and Satya has nowhere to hide.

Somewhere on the premises of the outpost, Winston has given Junkrat free reign to perform test runs on his new creations. Apparently this agreement had been amended to include items ranging from grape-sized grenades to full-scale mines and blocky charges of C-4. Each echoing blast is outdone by a greater and grander one about thirty to forty-five seconds later—unless there happens to be clusters of tinier explosives, which case there is endless firecracking for a solid minute—and although she will go nowhere near the source, she’s certain Junkrat is positively chuffed about his success.

If the noise weren’t so consistent, so abrupt, so _loud_ , it might be something she could tolerate. Combat is one thing; she has conditioned herself over the years to endure and tune out such things so she can function when turmoil rears its head. However, being in a relaxed state and in a safe space without danger present and yet still with the same cacophony is something different altogether.

No matter where she flees within the outpost walls, the distant boom of Junkrat’s extensive testing thrums in her marrow. She’s tried hunkering down in her bed with pillows over her ears, sealing herself inside the workshop, taking refuge in the kitchen, and yet despite her best efforts, everything persists. There is nothing she can do about it short of confronting him directly and demanding he stop, and she doesn’t even have that choice because she doesn’t want any closer proximity to the shattering din. It might not be quite as suffocating or overwhelming as crowds, but it still sews discomfort and agitation in a twisting lump behind her sternum.

Exasperated, Satya climbs the outpost floors and makes her way to the rooftops. Heaving open the metal door with the brunt of her strength, she’s greeted by the deep orange of a sinking sunset soaking across the horizon. Palettes of cool navies and gentle reds billow out from the swaying ocean beyond the grassy cliffs and outcrops. The breeze is pleasant, warm, and laced with the acrid scent of chemicals and smoke. Another wracking blast fires off from the southern end of the compound; a plume of grey curls up from the ground below and mists into the golden sun.

Satya takes a few tentative steps outward, bracing herself for the noise of yet another explosion. The buildings aren’t particularly tall—nothing like the ones in Utopaea—but the structures of the hangar, the mess hall, the barracks, and the collections of various other rooms in the compound can be seen from here. While metal and pavement encases a good portion of the outpost she’s grown to call home over the past couple of months, the crashing of the waves and the jutting cliff faces and the soft expanses of green offer it a sense of peace.

She sighs. If only Junkrat weren’t lighting oversized fireworks.

“Interesting,” says a level voice. “I didn’t expect anyone else to come here.”

Startled, Satya jerks to her right to see Zenyatta just beside the roof’s edge. He’s sitting cross-legged, _floating_ , the thick tassels spun around the waist of his aurum trousers dangling to the ground and sweeping against the shimmering surface beneath. The rest of his usual robes are absent, she notes, and the spindly architecture that assembles his torso, arms, and neck is in clear view. The gleam from the dying sun paints him in shades of copper and rust, rooting shadows beneath mechanical joints and metallic bones. His hands are extended and his thumbs and forefingers are pressed together in what seems to be a meditative stance as the array of prayer orbs circle the metal about his throat in a gentle glide.

“Greetings,” he says, and inclines his head toward her in a solemn bow.

Before she can reply, a blast resounds from another part of the complex. Satya flinches, bringing her palms to her temples in hopes of blocking out the noise, but she can’t shut it out. While she is no longer inside where the explosions would echo in through the walls, outside doesn’t seem to be a much better choice; it seems encompassing, climbing through the wind and hooking around her neck with a desperate fierceness.

“Ah,” says Zenyatta. “In search of escape, I see.”

“Yes.” Satya glares in the direction of the curling smoke. “It’s been almost _two_ _hours_. I wanted to continue my work, but I can’t do anything while he’s doing… _this_.”

“He does seem very passionate,” says Zenyatta. “Dedicated, in fact. It is rather admirable.”

“I suppose that’s one way to look at it.” Another boom bursts in the distance, and she grits her teeth as the sound travels up the slick faces of metal buildings and into the open air. “I would name it something different.”

The monk seems to survey her with a tilt of his head, sunshafts setting the sheen of his face alight. The nine point etchings across his forehead almost shimmer. After a moment, he extends a thin hand toward her in invitation. “Would you care to join me, Symmetra?”

“What?” Satya appraises his outstretched palm with a degree of bewilderment. Somehow, the sight of a hovering robot is both equally bizarre and amusing, and she can’t parse exactly what reaction she should be giving. “I can’t… I don’t think I can do what you do.”

“Nonsense.” He beckons in a fluid gesture of dexterous fingers, and she can’t help but wonder how he manages combat with such a slim and fragile-looking frame—if he manages it at all. “I believe I may be of assistance. You need not be a monk of any creed in order to experience the benefits of meditation. It is merely a mental exercise to clear the mind and maintain internal harmony within one’s self. I am not all knowing, but your unease is quite visible. Perhaps this may help.”

Satya considers it. While she has never participated in something of this exact nature, she assumes it can’t be too different from the exercises the instructors at Vishkar had once taught in order to regain control and hone the concentration for her craft. It has the same general components, or so it would seem, and is designed to achieve the same result: internal serenity.

If she can’t avoid the noise, what’s the harm?

“All right,” she agrees. “I am open to giving it a try.”

With slight hesitance, Satya closes the gap between herself and Zenyatta. She steps in beside him, folds one leg over the other, and lowers herself to the warm rooftop in a careful drop. She smooths out the dark fabric of her Vishkar uniform before resting her hands upon the knobs of her knees. The sunset seeps into the outskirts of her vision, a vivid and fiery smear across the sky, and with blots of orange and yellow chasing the static darkness behind her eyelids, she shuts her eyes and pulls in a deep inhale.

“Turn your focus inward,” says Zenyatta. His voice is polished and placid, reminiscent of an unbroken surface of a stilled pond, and although he remains at her side, he seems to engulf and envelop the space around her body in a swelling wave. “Be aware of what surrounds you,” he intones, slow and soft, “but attune your senses to the workings of your being. At this moment, there are no obligations to anything residing outside of one’s self. There is no greater importance than aligning one’s attention with the body.”

An explosion blows somewhere in the southern vicinity of the outpost, but it somehow seems less intense than the previous. Keeping her eyes closed, Satya attempts Zenyatta’s guided narrative and looks to her inner self: the pumping bellows of her lungs, the steady drum of her heart, the way her posture sets her shoulders, her back, her legs. The breeze caresses the sides of her face with wispy fingers and the heat from the fading sun sinks into her skin, but the construct of her body champions all.

“Follow the mechanics of the breath,” says Zenyatta. “Be conscious of where it flows. Let it take you through its journey from the world outside to within yourself. Each is a new path; mark them as they appear, and allow them to guide you. Become aware of how the body coexists with itself, of how individual pieces create the whole.”

Satya draws in another inhale, feeling the spaces in her lungs as they expand and grow full. She begins to number the breaths as they pull in and pools her attention to the cadences within herself. The smell of gunpowder and residue is present upon the flat of her tongue, but she pushes the sense to the back of her mind and keeps it at bay with each increment.

“Your body is a vessel for the spirit,” says Zenyatta. “Allow yourself to feel its presence.”

A strange warmth pours around her. Satya continues counting her inhales, but she opens one eye. To her surprise, Zenyatta is bathed in a rich, golden radiance as he hovers beside her. It emanates from the crux of his chest and unspools out around him in an ample radius, spilling out across the surface of the rooftop as the light of a second sun. She is just within its reach, enclosed within the aura, and a severe sense of calm instills within her blood as the shining forms of new hands take shape along the length of his spine.

“Gaze into the Iris.” Zenyatta clasps the metal of his fingers together and brings them inward. The hands behind him splay outward in poses she finds somehow familiar in the imagery of her gods, and a soothing heat unfurls somewhere from within. “Let yourself embrace the world. Feel it as it breathes with you, lives with you, _exists_ with you. Understand that you are but a component, yet a necessary one. A piece of the universe. Everything is whole, complete, and one.”

The ocean seems so very far away. Its continual beat against the beaches below the outpost has been muffled into a soft susurrus at the edges of her consciousness. If Junkrat has continued his rigorous testing, she can’t hear any of it. Zenyatta has anchored her to the world, enclosing her in something she doesn’t quite understand, and yet she can’t help but feel tranquil and serene. Her mind has been pleasantly scoured blank, her senses softened and aware; everything seems to fall away beneath her and the comforting hum of white noise purrs in, nudging in beneath her ears and plucking tender places down the curve of her back.

When Satya opens her eyes again, darkness steals the sky. Pinprick stars peer out through the gathering dusk, and the curved sliver of the moon waxes into the world. The horizon has dimmed into a deep, dreary navy, with sunset long since passed. Something must be twisting her perception, she assumes, as there is no way such a chunk of time could have passed in minutes. To her right, she glances to Zenyatta, who has returned to his previous, less-vibrant state of miraculous floating.

“Zenyatta?” Her voice is foreign in the space of her throat, and she coughs to flush it out. “What happened? How long has it been…?” She rubs a hand across her forehead and gazes across the structures of the facility as the night’s shadows begin to latch and sink in. “I feel strange.”

“I offered you peace,” says Zenyatta, “and in turn, you allowed yourself to achieve harmony through that offering. It has been half an hour. Perhaps forty-five minutes. Not too long.”

Satya finds herself speechless. While she hadn’t expected this, it’s apparent that the explosions she sought to escape have come to a full stop. She squints as she looks out toward the south end of the outpost, faint lights from the buildings casting cool glows across warm pavement and metal walls. There are no signs of smoke or destruction marring the air; even the wind smells crisp and clean.

“It’s finished. You may now continue your work.” He looks to her, the silver sheen of his body gleaming under the starlight. “That is what you wanted, is it not?”

“It is.” Satya folds her hands together, the metal of her hard-light gauntlet almost silver across the back of her right palm. A tender warmth seems to encompass her, smoothing out across the ends of her nerves and easing away her concerns, and she’s hard pressed to remember a time she’s ever felt this way. Vishkar, perhaps, when they elevated her to her cherished position as architech? “I have never experienced anything like this. You are from that haven, aren’t you? You mentioned it. The one in Nepal. Where all of the Omnics gathered.”

“Yes. I spent many years there in search of enlightenment. It is a beautiful place, far, far in the mountains. It snows with a pleasurable frequency, and the temperature does my body well.” Zenyatta flexes his fingers, as if testing their fluidity in the presence of a milder climate. “It houses tranquility like no other place I have ever been. Although I disagreed with the creeds of those there and left due to conflicting views, I do miss it dearly.”

Through the twilight yard below, the flash of shifting movement hooks Satya’s attention. Leaning forward, she bites at the bottom of her lip—just around the corner of one of the buildings, she discerns the lanky form of Junkrat. Out of impulse, she shrinks away from the edge of the rooftop, the thud of her heart kickstarting at his presence. He walks toward the main building in his lopsided gait, carrying what appears to be a notepad tucked beneath one arm. It’s almost too dark to tell, but the heavy pigments cloaked upon his chest and shoulders suggest he seems to have reclaimed the sooty appearance he’d seemed so loath to clean earlier in the week.

It shouldn’t, but it bothers her. It’s a niggling twinge back within the hollow of her chest, welded right by the knot of her pulse; it’s compulsion and want and need to correct the mess he’s made. The desire to dunk him under a torrent of water to see the grime slough off presses up under her fingertips, and an uncomfortable shard of her yearns for the Junkrat with the crooked grin she’d found pleasantly washed in the showers.

“That man holds chaos within him. His affinity for volatile compounds is no mistake.” Zenyatta laces his fingers in thought, watching Junkrat as he makes into one of the structures below with uneven steps. “Dislike of Omnics tends to that fire. I find it surprising he has not tried to attack me again.”

Satya opens her mouth to reply, but nothing comes forth. Working down a swallow, she kneads her hands together and tries to press Junkrat out of her mind.

It doesn’t work.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I about drove myself insane writing this. I do hope it was worth it. Apologies for the long wait.

Satya wakes several hours before sunrise.

Sleep has been restless and difficult, much like her first weeks spent at Gibraltar, and she doesn’t know why. She’s established herself a space she’s comfortable in, drawn together personal routines, and she’s developed somewhat amicable relationships among her teammates. Other than the usual stress of mission deployment and the pressure to protect both herself and her team, there isn’t much else that should affect her this way.

A part of her suspects the tense atmosphere that has come with the amping anticipation of Mei’s arrival. It’s been four days since the announcement of her return, and yet there has still been no sign of her. Winston admitted that he’s not heard from her since her initial communication, and he has not been successful in reestablishing contact, so there is little anyone can do short of sit and wait. Mercy has been particularly worried, and her fretting has begun to wear on the others.

Another possibility wells up: her near-death experience in Ilios. She doesn’t want to admit it, but it seems to be affecting her more than she’d like. It’s not as though she’s never experienced risk, peril, or injury in any of their previous missions, or even while under Vishkar’s guidance, so the concept is not foreign in the slightest. Still, a firearm pressing against her temple was such a surreal, vicious feeling, and the way she’d handled the situation crushes down the back of her neck with thick fingers. To complicate things, Junkrat had leapt off a rooftop and disarmed her attacker—and while she’s grateful, she really is, an undercurrent of anxious tension threads beneath her bones.

Satya rubs the back of her left palm, her robin’s egg nails scratching across her skin. She supposes it doesn’t help that any time she removes her gauntlet for sleep, bathing, or other water-based activities, there is a constricting feeling of vulnerability and exposure that sews down her spine. It feels strange, unnatural, like a part of her is missing; she takes pride in being able to manipulate and conjure hard-light objects, and it seems somehow wrong that she should remove the piece of her that enables her abilities. There is no question that she was _designed_ for this sort of work, that she was meant to bring order to the world through her creations—she was plucked from the streets by chance, climbed through the academy by sheer will, conquered her peers because her talents excelled—and Vishkar’s unique technology is the miracle that helped her achieve it. The amount of gratitude she has for them is endless.

In truth, a part of her misses Vishkar. Choosing to temporarily suspend her involvement was not a mistake, but she pines for the atmosphere and familiarity between the company walls. The were like-minded individuals there, always traversing the halls; people she could talk to about her craft and people with whom she could interact without feeling on edge. While she does enjoy the companionship of the remnants of Overwatch and finds their cause noble, there is no replacement for the sanctuary she once claimed as home.

With her mind awake and unsettled, she decides that sleep isn’t going to return anytime soon. In the cool dark of the early morning, Satya climbs out of bed and shuffles into her slippers. The black static of the barracks slowly melts away and solidifies into more familiar shapes as she makes her way to the desk across from the mattress. She retrieves a large, protective metal case from within one of the drawers, and she unfastens its clips with practiced haste.

After tipping it open, she tapers up the left sleeve of her pyjama blouse, taking care to roll it in even folds so it doesn’t bunch. Junkrat’s two empty shells stare back at her from the surface of her nightstand, faces grinning in silent laughter, and she watches them as she pieces apart the construct and refits it over the length of her arm. While its model is sleek, lightweight, and worlds better than previous ones she had been given in the past, its added heaviness is comforting. It reminds her of her connection to the world, the purpose she has, the accomplishments she’s achieved, and the person she’s become.

Everything clicks into place, precise and perfect, just as it should, and Satya feels whole again.

Shutting the case, she stows it back into the depths of the desk. As she starts to leave, she pauses by her nightstand and notes the small shapes of the shells smiling at her in the darkness. She’s not sure why, but she snatches one between her fingers and tucks it into a pocket of her loose fitting pyjama bottoms before exiting the barracks.

The halls are empty and still, the cool gleam of the emergency lights soaking the floors. Machinery churns somewhere in the outpost walls, humming and constant, and it follows her muffled footsteps as she traverses the shadows’ outskirts to the workshop’s entrance. Operating on muscle memory alone, she enters the keycode into the pin pad settled into the wall. The door slides open in a soft huff, and as she passes the threshold, she’s surprised to see that the overhead lights are still switched on. Had Torbjörn forgotten to shut them off before retiring for the night?

It’s then that she sees Junkrat hunched over the tables aligning the back wall.

His inventory surrounds him in the same haphazard piles as before; clustered casings, wires, bottled components, and what looks to be leftover scraps from another engine scatter about the floor. A newly built tire bomb lies in the very center of the collected materials, a long chain coiled around its thick hide of black rubber. To her surprise, a makeshift path clears the way from one end of the clutter to where he sits in the wheeled chair he’d borrowed from her upon his arrival. Absently, she wonders when he’d decided to tidy up.

With cautious steps, Satya begins to approach him, taking care to avoid stepping on anything that might house volatile mixes. Junkrat shows no signs of recognizing her presence—or of being awake, for that matter. He remains still, arms folded, his head resting upon the only clean expanse of tabletop. His shoe is missing, she realizes; his bare foot is hooked around one of the lower legs of the chair, his prosthetic stamped firmly upon the floor. When she draws close, she can see the gentle movements of his back as he breathes, the soot inflicted by the testing from two days’ prior streaking down hard muscle and collecting by his neck and hairline. A soft snore arises from him as he shifts and nuzzles further into the warmth of his left arm, and he shudders in the depths of his sleep.

This shouldn’t be so endearing. It shouldn’t. There’s no reason for it. He’s mad and mental and he’s a _mess_.

“Junkrat?” His name is a tentative whisper in her mouth, crushed consonants and mashed syllables, and it feels odd to say on the back of her tongue. Shouldn’t she be somewhere, anywhere else? Shouldn’t she leave him be? Why is she trying to wake the man she cannot stand?

Junkrat’s leveled breathing continues undisturbed. The rise and fall of his ribs hooks her attention, followed shortly by the slope of his belly and the jutting edges of his hips. Silence envelops the room and nestles by her shoulders, broken only by occasional snores, and a tangle of tension webs around her lungs. He must be dead to the world.

“Junkrat,” she says, and tries tapping the table right by his head.

In the severe quiet of the room, the sound seems too loud, too jarring; it’s sharp and staccato and too many decibels to wake the dead, and yet still not him. She wonders how long he’s been in here like this. How long has he gone without sleep? Did he even sleep yesterday? She doesn’t remember seeing him since she joined Zenyatta on the rooftops. Has he been here this whole time?

“Junkrat.” With a wary hand, she prods at the knob of his elbow. She makes sure to dust her fingers on her periwinkle pyjama bottoms afterward. It’s time to do laundry, anyway. “Junkrat, it’s four in the morning. What are you still doing here?”

He doesn’t move, but a mumble purrs from somewhere inside of him. She can’t quite hear what it is; it’s too low, too soft, said into the crook of his arm as someone would whisper precious secrets. Flecks of residue comb through the ends of his hair, tipped in stark charcoal, and the urge to dunk his head under a faucet comes to mind.

“ _Junkrat_.” Satya draws in a breath and gives him three quick pats on his back, right beneath his shoulder blades. His skin is warm, incredibly so, and she finds herself clutching a fist as she draws away. “If you’re going to sleep, you should be in bed. This is unhealthy.”

Gradually, Junkrat stirs. His shoulders work in a slow roll as he arches his back in a stretch, sinew and muscle and soot sculpting together in pleasing shapes. Lifting his head, he rubs his eyes on the inside of his wrist and cracks open a shuddering yawn. Glossy-eyed and dark crescents painted beneath his lids, it seems to take him a moment or two to regain a sense of his surroundings. When he realizes she’s standing beside him, he makes a noise in the back of his throat that sounds suspiciously like a strained yelp.

“Good morning,” she says. Perhaps it shouldn’t, but startling him provides a satisfying sort of pleasure.

“S’morning? Already?” Junkrat’s brow beetles and he rubs at his forehead with the flat of his hand. Exhaustion weighs through his motions, sluggish and lethargic, and she suspects he must have fallen asleep not too long ago. “Sure don’t feel like it.”

“It technically is morning, but the sun hasn’t risen yet.” Satya folds her arms and appraises him from her place against the table. “What were you doing here?”

“Ah, working. Tinkering. Usual stuff.” He cracks his neck with the help of his palm against his chin, and he lets out a soft groan. “Testing was good. Real good, actually. Got some reproducing to do ‘cause stock’s a bit run thin. With the way the ape was talking few days ago, it’s looking like we’re gonna be shipping out again real soon, so I got my work cut out for me here. Not a proper professional with no bombs to do my job.” He glances at her as he slumps back into the chair, propping his arms across its back. A smile edges at the corners of his mouth. “What you doing here, then? More of your little midnight strolls?”

“Unfortunately,” she replies. “I’ve not slept well the past few nights.” Out of reflex, her left hand curls into a fist as she recalls the sliced curve of moonlight under the black night of Ilios. Her teeth worry at the inside of her mouth; she remembers being close and cradled against the heat of his skin, hearing the heavy surge of his heart, and the sound burns far down beneath where she can’t pry it up. “You know, it occurs to me that I never thanked you for what you did.”

Junkrat threads his fingers through his hair, eyebrows rumpled with perplexity. “What’d I do?”

“During our last mission. You were—” Satya pauses and forces a swallow. She doesn’t know why the pressure of his gaze seems to surmount her train of thought, but it does, and it seems as though she’s collecting words through a sieve. “You stopped that man from killing me. If it weren’t for you, I don’t think I would be standing here. So… thank you. I appreciate it. You were very brave.”

“Brave?” Junkrat’s countenance softens from confusion into something she can’t quite pin. One canine bites at his lip, his mouth shaped into a pensive line. “Yeah, well, no worries. Don’t have to go thanking me or anything. Saw you was in a spot, so I did my part and stepped in. That’s what we’re supposed to do, right? I got your back, you got mine. No point in letting you cark it on some street somewhere ‘cause some wanker fancies himself a professional. Wouldn’t be very gentlemanly of me.”

He’s not much of a gentleman at all, she thinks, but she keeps it tucked under her tongue.

“‘Sides, I got us tied in our little thing we got going on,” he says, and holds up two fingers as a reminder. “Big success so far, if you ask me. Hell, team building exercise keeps up like this, and we’ll be inseparable in no time.”

Satya gives him an incredulous look. “Don’t you think that might be exaggerating?”

“Nah. Me and Roadhog’s good mates. Well, we wasn’t when I first found him, right, took a bit of convincing, but we are now.” Junkrat shrugs, the pronounced line of his collarbone catching her eye. “Don’t see why that won’t work again. Making nice’s not so hard.”

He presumes an awful lot, she thinks, and yet there is a twisting knot among her ribs that fears he’s right.

Junkrat leans back in his seat with a long stretch. He looks beyond exhausted with slow breaths and his eyes half-shut, but that doesn’t seem to deter him. Perhaps he’s used to long days and long nights of continuous projects. It wouldn’t surprise her; he seems to spend a good chunk of his downtime building, and it would make a great deal of sense if he put in time over the course of the night, but if that’s the case, she hasn’t the slightest idea of how he manages to stay awake.

“Say, Symmetra.” His voice takes upon a light and curious lilt, and he nods in the direction of her left arm. “How long you had that thing?”

Satya brings it across her stomach in an instinctual gesture. “A long time. Why do you ask?”

“Just was wondering.” He works his jaw in thought, keeping his eyes locked along the gauntlet, and it does nothing to quell her suspicion. “You go ‘bout making all those little things with it, right? Must be important. You build it yourself?”

“No, I didn’t.” She brings her right hand over her left and absently strokes over the white metal. It’s somehow soothing; it anchors her to reality and reminds her she still has a purpose. “But I did have input on this model. Others at Vishkar developed it and fitted it for my use. It allows me to manipulate and create as I see fit.”

Junkrat stoops forward with an eager grin. “Can I have a look?”

“What?” Satya takes a step backward out of impulse, tucking her arm behind her back where he can’t see. “What did you just say?”

“Just asked if I could have a look. Nothing serious.” However, he seems to recognize her apprehension, and he heaves a breathy sigh. “Aw, c’mon. Not looking to nick it off you or anything, if that’s what you’re on about. Just think your glowy stuff’s interesting. Saved my skin with it back at the ruins, remember? And you go popping these little things in outta nowhere, so suddenly there’s stuff sitting about where there wasn’t before. Can’t tell me that’s not interesting.”

The thought of him touching her elicits two equal and opposite reactions, neither of which she is particularly fond of. The first is vehement distaste, and chiefly regards his current state of hygiene. If he’d do himself a favor and wash the explosives’ residue off his body, she would be less inclined to avoid him and the compulsion to shove him in a vat of water would be far less insistent. The second, to her chagrin, bypasses the first completely: trembles traipse down her back and her pulse surges in a plume of adrenaline. His buttery words do nothing but stoke the smouldering coals, and although the thought of him touching her arm somehow seems worse, Satya can’t believe she’s considering it.

“I won’t stand for filthy hands,” she warns. “And you must promise to treat it with care. Is that understood?”

“‘Course,” he says. “I’d say I’d treat it like it was me own, but this’s seen some pretty big bangs over the years.” He wiggles his prosthetic fingers to punctuate his meaning, the orange metal cast with an almost grungy sheen under the workshop lights. “I’ll be real nice to it, though. Promise. Cross my heart.”

After a moment of deliberation, she nods her acknowledgement, and he scoots the chair over to where he can reach with a childish air of delight. Satya pulls away at the sight of his hands and glares at the obvious smudgework. She doesn’t say a word; she lets her body language do the scolding in her stead. It takes a moment, but realization seems to bludgeon him in the back of the head.

“ _Oh_ ,” he says. “Right, right. Sorry. Forgot. Hang on a tick.”

Junkrat slides the chair down the length of the table and snatches something from atop one of the piles of clutter. When he wheels back, he has a swatch of grey cloth draped over his shoulder. With a few short tugs of his metal fingers, he peels off his glove and sets it on the tabletop. Beneath the stained fabric, his hand blushes black and blue with the blemish of an ample bruise. He soon sets to rubbing the soot off of his right hand, and it does a world of difference, she finds; he scrubs the spaces between his fingers, over the tops of his knuckles, the thin valleys of his lifelines along his palm, and the cloth becomes considerably darker than when he’d first retrieved it. Wiping the metal down of his prosthetic goes by far faster, as skin has an unfortunate tendency to absorb.

“There,” he says, and holds up both in triumph for her to inspect. They’re not perfect by any means, but they’re far better than what they were, and she supposes it’s the thought that counts.

Tentatively, Satya extends her left arm. There is no need to be nervous—there’s no way he could inflict any kind of damage, or at least she hopes—but the unease is gripping, and she’s sure it shows because Junkrat moves with a kind, gentle slowness that she remembers from when he’d stooped down and lifted her at Ilios. The way he runs his fingers down the smooth metal and the supple joints is so unlike anything she’s seen from him before; he treats his explosives with an intimate familiarity, swift and quick and twitching with impatience, but with her arm set between his hands, he seems to have tempered his behavior for her benefit.

She’s not sure how she’s supposed to feel, but prickles drop down the small of her back and something shivers between her lungs.

As Junkrat examines the architecture of her hand, she realizes exactly how close he is. The sharp smell of his compounds clings to his skin, and while it’s stronger than she remembers, all that pulls forth from her mind is the thump of his heart as he brought her to Mercy beneath the carve of the dagger moon and blotted starlight. With his tongue at the corner of his mouth and his teeth pressed in, he glides his good hand over her palm, her inner fingers, the pristine crystal in the gauntlet’s center, all with a tender awe and curiosity that nearly could have rivaled her own when she’d first been presented with the prototype at Vishkar.

“Make something for me,” he says, cupping the back of her palm in his own. While everything is bulkier with the gauntlet on, he still dwarfs her hand, and she can’t get the image out of her head. “I wanna see up close and personal. Last time I was missing a couple important bits back in that sick bed, so I couldn’t have a proper look.”

Satya draws a short breath. “Is there something in particular you had in mind, or just anything?”

“Hm. Didn’t think about that.” He pauses a moment, staring pensively at her arm, and then offers a slight shrug. “Ah, just one of those little gizmos, I guess. S’what you normally do, right? Yeah, try one of those. Should be good.”

It’s difficult to concentrate with her heartbeat drumming through her ears, but she straightens her posture, centers herself, and brings her fingers together. The light bends and shapes to her will, and a simple wireframe glows into existence. With precise twists and adjustments, she sculpts it to match one of the several the schematics she knows by heart. The turret’s frame is still crystal and translucent as she holds it between her hands, and when she turns to the tabletop to place it, Junkrat’s palm slides away and he lets her take the final step to weave it into reality.

“ _Strewth_ , what a skill.” He hunches down, hands on his haunches, and he peers at the conjured turret with vigorous enthusiasm. “Imagine if I could make bombs like you make these. Just imagine. Imagine! Instantly pull ‘em out of thin air and then they’re ready to pop. Love making ‘em, but _still_ , with something like this, could have a whole bloody month’s worth in minutes. Beautiful.”

Junkrat spends the better part of two minutes turning it about and inspecting its design before Satya taps the back of his chair. His spine straightens in a snap and he looks over his shoulder, his hair a wild mess, the greyed crescent moons shaping beneath his eyes seeming somehow darker than before.

“You really ought to go to bed,” she says, rolling the chair backward with a gentle tug. “I appreciate the interest in my craft, but you don’t look well.”

“Yeah, I know. Probably should. I’m knackered.” Junkrat paws at his eyes and sucks in a long, jaw-cracking yawn. “Bombs won’t build themselves, though. Gotta get some work done before they cram us on that ship. I’m not much use if I’ve got nothing to make a bang with.”

“You aren’t much use if you fall asleep on the battlefield, either.”

Satya leans in and grips his prosthetic with the metal of her left hand. Her fingers encompass the back of his palm, a distinct pressure through the gauntlet, and her mind scours blank with the sudden proximity. She doesn’t know why she’s doing this, why she’s so invested; he’s not her responsibility, he’s not her friend; he’s a mercenary and he’s brusque and he’s blunt and he’s _kind_ and somehow so beyond the lowly image she’d cobbled for him upon their first encounter.

“Will you go to bed?” There is an edge there, firm, goading, and she doesn’t know how it slipped by without her consent.

Junkrat seems startled: his eyes are wide, mouth half-open, his posture rigid and still. After glancing to where she’s clasped about his arm, his gaze settles on her, drops of molten amber under the harshness of the workshop lights. His good hand clenches in a twitching fist, and a visible swallow works down his throat.

“What, you worried about me?” There’s a chord of uncertainty in the timbre of his voice, like he’s unsure and waiting and yet a sharp feeling lurks somewhere in his chest.

“You’re a part of the team.” Satya attempts what she thinks resembles an affirming smile under the pressure of her pounding heart. It wouldn’t be so bothersome if her face weren’t so hot and if she didn’t have to strain to hear herself over the incessant drums. “Teamwork is important during combat, but it is important outside of it as well. Everyone should aim to be healthy and well rested. I’m certain Mercy would agree.”

Junkrat gives one last look to her hand. A smirk lingers at the corner of his mouth. “Right. Probably would. Then I reckon she’d ban me from dinner again.”

Rolling the muscle of his shoulders, he slides out of the chair and draws up to his full height. His constant slouching and poor posture puts him at such a disadvantage, and Satya keeps forgetting how much he towers over her with his hunched stances and the coiled ways he carries himself.

With the heel of his palm, he rubs at his eyes again and regards her with a wan smile. “All right,” he says. “I’ll go hit the hay. Might see you sometime s’arvo, yeah? If you’re around.”

Before she can think of a way to reply, he gives a flippant wave and lopes away in his odd gait. The iridescent blue of her hard-light blade glimmers at the back of his belt, and the urge to ask him why he’s bothered to keep it so long wells up behind her lips, but the words snag on the edges of her teeth and the flat of her tongue and nothing pours out.

The workshop door shuts behind him in a quiet hiss, and she’s left alone in shivering silence.

Satya reaches for the empty shell in her pyjama pocket. She brings it into her palm and squeezes tight, flustered and dazed and distraught.

She likes him, she realizes.

She likes him, and there’s nothing she can do about it.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This included a hell of a lot more plot than I'd intended. Oops. I hope the information dump is more exciting than I think it turned out.
> 
> Good news: next chapter should be a LOT more exciting.

Mei-Ling Zhou arrives near Gibraltar with a bang.

“ _What_? She’s being tailed? By _who_? The bloody hell’s going on?”

Tracer plants her hands on the smooth surface of the tactics table and glares at the projected holograms overhead. Her hazel eyes hold a fierce fire, her spindly form roping with tension and fury, and her accelerator glows with its usual sapphire burn around a loose tee-shirt and pale shorts. Satya isn’t sure if it’s the dimness of the room or the images’ brightness toying with her eyes, but its vibrance is to the point of blinding.

“I don’t know. All I know is she’s very close, and she’s under attack. There was some sort of explosion at the end of her call.” Winston is perched in his usual chair, concentrating on his monitor with a serious gaze and his fingers clacking on the keyboard in his lap. “She didn’t have time to provide details. She gave her coordinates and an expected trajectory, but that’s all. The channel closed before I could do anything else. I tried my best to reestablish it, but something must have happened to their comm link. There was nothing but static.”

“What are we going to do?” Mercy stands at the edge of the conference room by Genji and Zenyatta, her lab coat draped across her shoulders. Her stern stare focuses on Winston through the frames of her glasses, her mouth pressed into a firm line. “She needs assistance, and quickly. If they’re pursuing her this late in her journey and caused her to go off course, her ship may run out of fuel before we can reach her. We must take action immediately.”

Satya peers up at the crisp holograms with a narrowed gaze. A three-dimensional map of the region has been modeled in the center of the room, marking both Mei’s current location and her projected path in a series of brilliant red lines. She appears to have been fleeing eastward toward Gibraltar, but her route took an unexpected turn, and now she’s headed along the shoreline a couple hundred miles to the west. Mercy raises a fair point: depending on when her pursuers swooped in, the craft may be dangerously low on fuel.

“What time was this communication received?” Satya combs over the region map and tries to trace a mental pattern of where the ship might have originated on a global scale, but without further data, her extrapolations would be pure guesswork. Winston mentioned Eco watchpoints when it was announced she would be joining the team, but Satya knows nothing about where they might be located. “Is there any threat of her ship running out? When did she leave?”

“The call came in at about 1300 hours, just before Athena made the announcement.” Winston’s brow is wrinkled with concern, the soft black of his fur alight with an azure sheen beneath the holograms. “Mei didn’t mention anything about fuel or what time she might have left, but the channel wasn’t open for long. I only had the chance to get a few words in before it was cut off. She said the trip here was delayed due to whoever’s involvement, and now they’re following her and trying to sabotage her transportation.”

“Well, we cannot just _sit_ here.” Teeth gnashed and squared jaws clenched, Reinhardt unfolds his arms and slams an enormous fist upon the table, shaking the projected images in a jagged jitter. The sound is too harsh, too abrupt, and Satya joins the entire room recoiling in a collective flinch. “She is in danger. We must help! It is time for action, my friends. We must deal with this threat ourselves.”

“Reinhardt’s right,” says Tracer. She zips toward Winston’s end, engaging him in a fierce stare. “We can’t just let her hang about up there with whoever’s after her. She might be killed!”

“I agree, but this is a dangerous situation,” says Winston. “We don’t know what will be waiting for us once we respond.”

“Oh, come off it.”

Farther to Satya’s right, Junkrat shifts his back flush against the wall, his thumbs hooked through the belt loops of his patchwork shorts. Judging by this morning’s events, she had been certain he would still be sound asleep, but it seems as though Roadhog has managed to drag him out of bed in time. He looks significantly less drained than before, she notes, although there is still a weary countenance written across his features; the light from the holograms etches dark hollows beneath his eyes, down the column of his throat, and along his collarbone.

“Not like this’s no different from nothing else,” he says, working his neck in a stretch. The timbre of his voice somehow holds an entirely different air than it had hours earlier when she’d met him in the workshop, and it wedges something foreign between her ribs. “What you think shoving us all in that little tinny and skipping us halfway ‘cross the world’s doing? Got some pretty beaches, yeah, but it’s sure as hell’s not some holiday.”

Roadhog shadows Junkrat with his massive form. While his weapons are not on his person, he doesn’t need them for intimidation; the black eyes of his mask glint in the map’s glow, offering an unsettling, almost malevolent sort of gaze that Satya wishes she could avoid. His impressive arms crossed over the girth of his chest, he claims support for his charge with a guttural grunt and a short nod.

“As much as I don’t like it, the boy’s right, Winston,” says Torbjörn. He sits in one of the wheeled desk chairs, one hand clutched upon an armrest, eyes squinted at the digital map. His great blond beard rests upon his chest, thick braids twirled about by an idle finger. “This shouldn’t be any different. So what if there’s a bit of danger? We need to rescue Mei. She answered your little recall, didn’t she? If she hadn’t, she might still be safe at whatever watchpoint she holed herself up in.”

“I am in agreement.” Genji’s visor radiates an eerie green as he steps in at Mercy’s side, the thin form of Zenyatta tucked close behind. “She has sacrificed much for our cause in the past. This would be a poor way to repay her kindness. She has placed herself into danger at our expense.”

“I understand,” says Winston, “and I’m with you, all of you, but we must be aware of the risks. We’ll be going in blind and straight into combat without any preparation other than the ride there. This isn’t like our other planned missions; there won’t be any setting up camp or taking time to scope out the enemy. As soon as we reach her, we engage.”

“She sent a distress call,” grinds Genji behind the faceplate of his helm. “It is our duty to answer it. We must go after her, regardless of what may lie in wait!”

The old Overwatch members sink into a heated squabble, rough and punctuated voices pervading the rigid atmosphere. Reinhardt’s is powerful, coarse, overwhelming, pushing up through the strength of his diaphragm and welling up over Winston, Tracer, Genji, Torbjörn, and Mercy. Satya finds herself slinking backward under the pressure of the intense commotion, her fingers cupping over the shells of her ears. As she backs away, she notes that the junkers remain silent against the far wall; Roadhog stares at the thick of the group behind the bulk of his mask, and Junkrat taps the heel of his boot against the wall out of what she perceives as boredom.

When she catches his eyes in the gentle gleam of the holograms, his right hand curls in a fist by his hip and he uses his prosthetic to wave a wordless hello. The vivid image of him hunched over the back tables in the workshop pries up underneath the edge of her mind, and the hard shape of his back and the sounds of his soft snores imprints in places they never should. The feeling of the empty casing in her palm lingers across her lifelines, and it’s more difficult than it should to raise her hand in reply.

“Everyone, _listen_!” Winston’s voice crashes over Reinhardt’s din and the rest of the quarreling team, echoing off the walls of the room in a clashing shout. The bickering tapers off into awkward mumbles, and heated stares shift to fixate in his direction. “Listen,” he says. “I need all of you to focus. Please. This is an urgent matter, and as urgent as it is, we need a plan if we’re going to rescue Mei.”

Winston raises a hand as if to quell any dissenting arguments, scanning a steely gaze about the length of the room. While all of Overwatch’s members seem agitated and angry, Satya admits that Winston does a decent job at reining them in. His leadership has been a trial and error process thus far, but he seems to adapt with little issue.

“We will help Mei,” says Winston, “but we can’t jump headfirst into a situation we know nothing about. She didn’t have time to tell me how many were pursuing her before the channel was severed, so your assumption is as good as mine on the identity of her attackers. Other than the small pieces of information she gave us, we have nothing else. Our forces number ten in total, and that’s all of you—” He sweeps a finger around the room, “—and myself included, all against an unknown aircraft. Between the ten of us, we have only one ship. Just one. If something should happen, _all_ of us will be in danger, not just Mei.”

“Well, it’s _my_ ship,” says Tracer. She crosses her arms beneath the blue churning of her accelerator and thins her mouth into a frown. “I say we go for it. We’ve got no time to waste, Winston. She could be spinning to the ocean right now, and we’ve just been sitting about having a chat over whether or not to step in and save her!”

“Lena, that was never up for debate.” Winston’s tone is calm yet firm, and he gives her a pointed look behind the lenses of his squared spectacles. “We are going after Mei. Leaving her is not an option. Do you really think I’d do such a thing?”

Seeming deflated, Tracer glances down to her feet. “Sorry, big guy. Didn’t mean it like that. Really. Just… worked up, is all. It’s Mei, right? She’s brilliant. We can’t lose her to something like this.”

“All the more reason for a plan.” Winston turns to the rest of the group. “All right, hear me out. The ORCA is ill-equipped for air combat and without any formidable weapons, but Lena is a fantastic pilot. She’s our ace. A surprise attack is possible because of the ship’s size, and we might be able to out-maneuver them with her in control, but with that being said… we need a way to extract Mei. And any other survivors that might be with her.”

The room is still with amping tension, wrapped among itself in a shaking sort of heat. Silence, thrumming machinery, and heavy breaths crush the air, the weight of everyone’s eyes crowding around Satya’s shoulders. Watching the cluster of her teammates’ grim faces as they pry themselves apart in hopes of stitching together half-sensible ideas to save Mei-Ling Zhou steeps her blood in the starting threads of adrenaline.

“I have an idea,” says Mercy. She slides off her glasses and cleans them with the hem of her coat, her brow knit together in uncertainty. “It’s very risky, but we might be able to send one or two of us down to her ship by way of cables and harnesses. We have a number of dense fiber cords available, and there should already be harnesses aboard the ship. I wouldn’t recommend it, but a chase mid-air with an unknown enemy and an aircraft with little firepower…? We don’t have many options available to us.”

“And should we choose that route, how might we breach the craft’s hull?” Zenyatta clasps his hands together, drawing up beside Mercy with slow steps. The wood of his sandals scuffs the floor as his golden prayer orbs circle his throat in lazy pirouettes. “She will either be the cargo or the pilot—neither of which is ideal for such a perilous situation. Depending on where she is located within, it may prove difficult to extract her.”

“Leave the breaching to me, scraphead.” Satya’s heartbeat pulls into her neck at the sound of his voice. Junkrat bites at his lower lip in a manic grin, and a delighted laugh coils out from his chest. His hands flex back and forth in anticipation, as if each held a detonator he were just itching to press. “Blasting open some wall? Oh, that’s got me name written all over it. Nothing’s too big for a couple of my lovelies. Get me in close and I’ll pop it right open for you.”

“We would prefer to keep Mei intact,” says Genji, clipped and in a condescending edge. “Your toys will only pose a threat to her safety.”

“Oi, you wanna come over here and say that?” In a fearsome twist, pleasure melds to enmity across the sharp features of Junkrat’s face. He pushes himself up from the wall by his elbows and steps forward, fingers pinched into fists. “I ain’t seeing you offering up no ideas with them fancy swords of yours. C’mon, you bloody clanker, I’ve got a bomb with your name on it right here and I can show you right where to—”

Before Junkrat can elaborate any further, Roadhog engulfs him by the shoulder with a heavy hand and drags him back toward the wall. Junkrat growls in his throat and quakes in frustration as Roadhog holds him still, but his giant bodyguard shows no signs of relenting. Satya breathes an internal sigh of relief; she’s glad Roadhog has the sense to snuff out the fight in his friend. An altercation breaking out in light of such a dire situation would prove detrimental to all parties involved, Mei included.

“Right, so, we’ve got a way in.” Tracer ignores the scuffling junkers and glances to Mercy, her countenance soft and unsure. “But what if the cords or harnesses break? What if something else goes wrong? Whoever goes down there won’t be able to get back. Then what? What do we do? Just let it happen? Let them crash?”

The solution has already been mapped in Satya’s mind. A thought meets its mark, and there is a tight feeling of pride that swells behind her breastbone. There is no better person suited to this position; without question, this has all been by design. This is her place, her purpose, and it solidifies her choice in suspending her involvement with Vishkar to take up arms with Overwatch: Recall.

Drawing a steady breath, Satya steps forward and focuses her concentration within herself. She brings her hands together in delicate spins, webbing her fingers in intricate patterns, and she begins to conjure a beaded wireframe between them. It is from an older schematic, one she remembers from her fifth year; it isn’t perfect, but it is the crude prototype of a teleporter base, and just enough to garner approval.

“I will go,” she says, drawing the translucent body apart for the group to see. “If we use Junkrat’s explosives to breach the ship, I can open the path. Placing a teleporter on board will allow us to return to our aircraft without the use of harnesses. It will be safer, more secure, and it will also ensure we rescue any surviving passengers, should that be the case. It is our only option of a seamless transfer.”

A pleasant murmur of agreement spreads throughout the room. Mercy and Tracer share a gleam of hope, and Reinhardt flashes her an approving smile from behind his thick white beard. All eyes are on her, on the floating construct woven among her palms, and the intensity thrums hotly in her blood. A part of her is compelled to glance in Junkrat’s direction, but she reins in the urge and crushes it beneath her marrow. Nothing will prevent her from doing her job—not even mad bombers with nice shoulders and pleasing grins.

“All right,” says Winston, offering Satya a grateful nod, “it looks like Symmetra and Junkrat will be going aboard. This will let us both board the ship and leave it. It might be pushing it, but I think we might be able to use one more, just in case things get hairy. Is there another volunteer?”

“I will accompany them.” Zenyatta emerges from beside Genji, aurum robes draped about his slender frame and golden prayer orbs gliding about the roping cords that sculpt his neck. “I have been sitting idle long enough. I think it is time I proved my usefulness here.”

“Master, _don’t_.” Genji swirls about and holds an arm out before the Omnic monk, effectively blocking his path. Shoulders tight, head inclined, he stares at Zenyatta through the glow of his visor. “Please reconsider. Is this truly necessary? You cannot go with the likes of—”

“I will go where I am needed, Genji.” Zenyatta presses a mechanical hand to the forearm of Genji’s armor, maneuvering it aside in a gentle swipe, and traverses past him with scuffing steps. “And it appears I am needed in this endeavor, so I am answering the call. One must learn to put aside one’s differences in the light of peril, even if there is disagreement.” He performs a light bow toward Satya, fingers laced and head dipped. “I will contribute to the best of my abilities, and I will see Mei to safety.”

Junkrat bites curses beneath his breath somewhere behind Satya—still restrained by Roadhog, she assumes; he can’t be happy about Zenyatta’s involvement—but the rest of the team seems to pay him and his prejudices no mind. The holograms wink out as Winston disconnects his computer, saturating the room in a cool darkness, and footsteps start to resound against the walls. Despite the situation, the air is rife with anger, anticipation, and _hope_.

“All right, everybody, time to suit up. No time to be sitting around; we’ve got ourselves a ship to catch!”

Tracer skips to the conference room door, the blue of her accelerator setting her eyes alight. The group echoes various cheers at her, their voices a raucous clang in Satya’s ears, and she finds herself clutching at the metal of her left arm in expectancy of the encounter ahead.

“Let’s let Mei know the cavalry’s on its way!”


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I keep falling, I keep falling down_   
>  _If you could only save me_   
>  _Where do we go from here?_   
>  _Why can't I see what's right in front of me_

Satya earns her third point with the sky at her back and the sun in her eyes.

The dropship soars westward over the ocean, intersecting Mei’s anticipated trajectory in hopes of intercepting her and her pursuers. The engines roar somewhere beneath the soles of Satya’s feet, operating at maximum capacity, and the perpetual drone hums down below her bones. Oxygen is brisk and cold, sucked in through the ship’s filtration systems, and as the minutes speed past, Satya swears the temperature is starting to drop. Summer sapphire paints the world beyond the dropship’s door; thick cumulus clouds blot the horizon and sweep the atmosphere above.

Mercy tends to Satya’s harness in the center of the main cabin, fitting it with precision and care over the deep purple of her Vishkar uniform. Satya lifts her arms perpendicular to her body, allowing Mercy to check the tightness of the straps and knots. As Mercy circles around with firm tugs and minor adjustments, Satya tries to pacify the palpitating of her heart through measured breathing and envisioning herself back within Vishkar’s gorgeous halls. It does little to still her nerves, but she has to try; her abilities are the very crux of this mission, and she would never forgive herself if she were to falter now.

Junkrat stands a few feet to Satya’s left, waiting his turn. The various pouches and packs hitched around his hips are full to bursting with his personal inventory, the leather wrap about his chest adorned with smile-touched grenades. If he’s nervous about his role in the events to come, it doesn’t show. If anything, his behavior belies boredom; he rolls a crimson shell among his good fingers, dipping it between his thumb, his index, his middle, entwining it about in the same figure-eight as a roller coaster would twist down its tracks. His tongue sets between his teeth, tucked at the corner of his mouth, and his fiery eyes focus on the painted casing, trailing it as it makes its journey around the lithe frame of his hand.

Satya would be lying to herself if she said he wasn’t one of the chief reasons of her anxiety. He reminds her of everything that’s wrong with the world: filth, disorder, instability, unpredictability, chaos, and yet he harpoons straight through her expectations with a molten fervor and leaves her a staggering sort of breathless. Despite his uncouth behavior and blunt words, he entertains his own vision of the world’s grand schematic, like he’s still on the first revision while she’s somewhere on the third, and from being in his company and watching him work, she realizes that he sees things in a light she’s never expected. He sees things as their components, their usefulness, the way they can be pieced together; he sees them beyond their intended purpose and is willing to craft them a unique place; he sees everything through a different lens, through a sharper scope, and he sees things _like her_.

Such a man shouldn’t exist, she thinks, and she shouldn’t be attracted to such a man, either. The duality of her own thoughts is enough to make her stomach churn: he should leave, he should stay; he’s mad, he’s intelligent; he’s boorish, he’s honest; his body’s a disaster, his body’s a temple—and there is a sharp, pointed shard lurking beneath her lungs that reminds her that if she had the chance to pray, she’s not sure of the choice she would make.

“There, that should be secure.” Mercy circles around to Satya’s front and nods in approval. “All that’s left is to fasten the cord once we engage. I know it’s unneeded, but please, do be careful. Dropping from such a height at such a speed is beyond dangerous. To be honest, I can’t believe I’m sanctioning this insanity. I fear for the three of you.”

“We’ll be fine. I have no doubt.” Satya adjusts where the harness digs into her shoulder. It’s uncomfortable, but she supposes a bit of discomfort is a small sacrifice to make for the security of her life. “We are all strong, capable people, and from what I hear, there is no better pilot than Tracer. We are in good hands.”

“I know. And in spite of that, all we can do is hope for the best.” Mercy offers a thin smile, the Valkyrie’s armor shimmering stark ivory under the overhead lights. “I have faith in you, Symmetra. I have faith in all of you. Please bring Mei back to us.”

“We will,” she replies, and she means it.

Mercy turns away and tends to Junkrat. As she fits the harness overtop of his own and works it around the cylindrical shapes of his grenades, Satya finds herself settling into a cool, tranquil calm. She recognizes this; it’s the lull before the storm, she knows, and everything will start to sunder apart very soon, but she strokes the metal of her left hand and bites at the inside of her mouth and savors the short reprieve of internal peace.

“We should be real close now, loves.” Tracer’s voice wells over the intercom, an octave below her chipper tone and laced with a stern, steely concentration. “Be on your toes and keep an eye out, all right? We haven’t got much time, no idea how long, so as soon as we’re within range, we’re going right ahead with the plan, no waiting. Torby, Winston, you two ready?”

“Roger that.” Winston paws up from the tactics table and lifts his tesla cannon over his shoulder.

“Aye, we’re ready,” says Torbjörn. He straightens himself and rests a proud elbow upon the edge of one of his turrets, his crimson battlegear gleaming bright. “Got some genuine Swedish engineering right here. This will make ‘em think twice about coming after us.”

“Brilliant! That’s what I like to hear. How are the three stars of the show?”

“Two are ready to go,” says Mercy, tightening one last strap over Junkrat’s shoulder. He winces under her strength and gives her a perturbed look, but she pays him no mind. “Just one more left, and we’ll be all set.”

“Perfect. Keep at it, and I’ll let all of you know when the sparks are about to fly. Cheers!”

Satya draws up to the dropship door and presses a hand across its cold surface. Beyond the glass, the open sky rolls out to meet her gaze and the dark vastness of the ocean awaits below. Something trembles inside of her at the thought of leaping out into the beyond, but she reins it back and nests it where it can’t inflict further damage. Now is not the time to crumble under pressure; now is the time to set her jaw, clench her fists, and _do_.

“Lovely day out.” Junkrat lopes up beside her. A mechanical thumb tugs on the harness Mercy had wrangled overtop of him, and the shell from earlier twirls about his other hand before landing in the center of his palm. With a wide grin, he leans his tattooed shoulder against the dropship door and regards her with a sweep of his eyes. “Couldn’t ask for better weather for a bit of skydiving. All sunshiny with blue skies and fluffy clouds. Perfect. Bet the wind’s real nice.”

“You’re excited about this.” It’s not a question. She knows he is. He thrives on treacherous things like jumping off of buildings or leaping out of moving ships to land on other moving ships or placing explosives on the hulls of said moving ships to blast them open, and she doesn’t know whether to feel alarmed or relieved at the thought.

“Well, I’d be a lot more excited if that useless hunk of scrap wasn’t dragging itself along.” He presses his temple to the glass of the door and sticks out his tongue to punctuate his displeasure. “Don’t matter what the mission is, we don’t need no help from no bloody robot. Bucket of bolts can go get stuffed as far’s I’m concerned. Them things’s not trustworthy.”

“Both you and Torbjörn are terribly close-minded. Zenyatta has done nothing to warrant such suspicion from either of you.” Satya folds her arms and keeps her eyes focused on the flowing plane of blue outside the ship’s window, but his presence has become a monolith at the outskirts of her vision, and with the image of him sleeping in the back of the workshop embedding beneath her eyes, he becomes far too difficult to ignore.

“So it’s got a name, does it? Fancies itself a person. That supposed to match the costume?” He laughs as he glances over to where Zenyatta stands by the tactics table, Mercy tending dutifully to his harness beneath his robes. “Only reason you’re defending it’s ‘cause you ain’t seen what them things’ve done. Me and Roadie have. And the short bloke, I guess, off out in whatever country.” His hand toys with the red casing again, rolling it about between the pads of his fingers. “Being honest, it’s not pretty stuff. Maybe you’d think twice ‘bout letting that thing join us.”

“Regardless, we need to work together to rescue Mei,” says Satya. “I won’t have you acting like a petulant child because you disagree with a member of the team who actively _volunteered_ to participate in a highly dangerous mission for the sake of our team.”

“Right, well, volunteering’s nothing. ‘Course it’d volunteer. S’how it makes you trust. I’d watch my back if I was you.” Junkrat sniffs, brow rumpled, and he eyes her with what she thinks is concern, like she’s somehow been brainwashed by this perceived enemy and is in desperate need of saving. “I’ll deal with it, though. For the _team_. Y’know, since that’s so bloody important. I’ll deal with it, right, but I’m not liking it.”

While not ideal, Satya supposes that’s better than nothing. It could be like how he acted upon Genji’s arrival where he’d planned on blowing Zenyatta up in the mess hall, and she decides that brusque tolerance is a superior alternative to… well, whatever gruesome punishment she’s sure he has in mind.

“We can’t work together efficiently if we do not trust one another,” she says. “You don’t have to like him. I don’t expect that. But I _do_ expect you to treat him as a teammate.” She glances up at him, soaking in the warm gaze of his eyes, and a twinge of discomfort forces her to look away. “You have some semblance of manners in you somewhere. Use them.”

“I’ll give it a go,” he says. “But I can’t make no promises. If that thing makes a wrong move, it’s scrap.”

Satya is about to press him further, but Tracer’s voice cuts throughout the ship before she can cobble the words together.

“Target sighted!” she shouts, urgency lacing through in an electric timbre. “Two aircrafts to port-side, one in hot pursuit! Looks like there’s been a bit of structural damage on both… Bloody hell, and _that_ looks like some of our friendly Talon mates!” Tracer must have adjusted something, because the engines ramp up into a quaking strength that shakes the floor beneath. “Hang on everyone, get ready and grab what you can—things’re about to get very bumpy!”

The ship lurches down in a swooping dive, and Satya slams into the door’s glass surface. Junkrat suffers a similar fate, his shoulder smashing against it in a pained grunt. With gravity sucking her heels out from under her, she grapples at the wall beyond the door for purchase, but her fingers skim the jutting frames of the seats, and instead she finds herself heading for the cold metal of the cabin floor.

A wiry arm cinches about her waist before she falls. The radiating warmth of Junkrat’s chest presses against the curve of her back, and coiling strength wrangles her back into equilibrium. A piece of her worries over the charcoal smudges swathed over his skin and the state of her clothes, but she wraps it up behind her lungs and reaches out for something, _anything_ to provide support. When she settles for the nearby frame, clasping far too tight, his presence retreats as swiftly as it had arrived and she can’t remember when her heart had started to pound.

In the far back corner of the ship, movement catches the outskirts of her vision. Glancing over, she watches Roadhog as he grips onto the ceiling for support and stares back at her with a cool emptiness. His mask is clearly fixated in her direction, black eyes narrowed and hook drawn at his side. His chest and tattooed belly swell and fall with steady breaths, and although she can’t hear the whisk through the chambers of his mask over the hum of the engines, it sounds through her head with a harsh, fierce clarity.

Satya doesn’t know why he keeps focusing on her, but she wishes he would stop.

As soon as the dropship levels out and regains a semblance of stability again, Mercy darts over to Satya, Reinhardt trailing at her side. He holds three giant rolls of some sort of industrial-thick cord hung about his massive arms, twisting his plain tee-shirt underneath. Winston had somehow convinced him to leave his suit of power armor at Gibraltar; an argument over crashing and drowning, she assumes, as something so heavy would surely prove to be as buoyant as a boulder.

“Zenyatta,” Mercy calls across the cabin, “come, quickly! Let’s get the three of you secured and tied in. We have no time to lose!”

Zenyatta sheds his robes as he approaches, revealing the thick harness and the tight architecture of his torso beneath. He folds the soft yellow cloth together in neat squares between the lithe shapes of his hands. The tassel roped at his slender waist shuffle with the rhythmic scuff of his sandals and the quiet rustle of his trousers. Genji follows along just behind him, visor a brilliant green, and he accepts Zenyatta’s robes with a sullen silence.

Meanwhile, Reinhardt unspools a rope of cable and provides it to Mercy, who attaches the length accordingly to Satya’s harness. The distinct chime of hooks clipping behind her back rings over the rumble of the engines. After Mercy seems satisfied with her work, she moves onto Junkrat, and then Zenyatta, making sure each of them has been properly secured with the appropriate cable. A pair of blue-tinted goggles is slipped over her head by a set of large hands, and before she can question it, she’s patted on the shoulder by Reinhardt.

“A gift from Lena,” he says, his mouth spread in a wide grin. “For the both of you! Keeps the eyes safe from the winds.”

Satya glances to Junkrat. A similar pair of goggles has been shuffled over him, black strap cupping the space just above where his neck and skull meet, the orange lenses wrapped about his forehead and across his widow’s peak. He pulls at them with a quizzical look before shrugging in acceptance. She misses the comfort of her visor, but she supposes it wouldn’t provide the same protection. Absently, she wonders if Tracer chose the colors on purpose.

Behind her, Torbjörn and Winston drag the series of turrets up toward the dropship door. Their intended purpose is to supplement the ORCA’s weak firepower, and while it’s a grand idea, she doesn’t know the extent of the turrets’ range or if they would even be able to reach the pursuing ship. With how much Torbjörn brags about the power and artistry of his engineering, she sure hopes they pack a punch.

“We’re just about in position,” says Tracer over the ship’s comm. “No one’s fired yet. Don’t know why, but I’m not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Is everyone ready? Are we clear to move in? Gotta know now!”

“We’re ready!” says Mercy, calling up the cockpit. “Whenever we’re close enough, disengage the locks!”

“You got it! Winston, love, I need you up here—come man the guns for me, just in case!”

As Winston gallops out of the cabin and up toward the cockpit, Satya takes the opportunity to glance out the dropship’s door. Just below, the grey shape of another ship edges into view. It’s far, far larger than the ORCA—a cargo ship of some sort, perhaps, or a carrier—and from what she can tell, there seem to be smoking impact points fractured in several places across its hull. She assumes they might be utilized as weak points to breach the ship and claim entry, but they might also lead to impassable places. She doesn’t have enough experience with the internal architecture of aircrafts to know whether they would be viable entry points, but she supposes among the slew of damage, at least one of them would make a proper breach.

Regardless, it will be up to Junkrat’s judgment, and Satya doesn’t know if that terrifies or excites her.

“Are you ready, Junkrat?” asks Mercy. “You’ll be the first to go down. Once you get on the ship, you must do whatever you can to create an opening for Symmetra and Zenyatta.”

“Oh, I will. No worries, love. Never been more ready.” Junkrat snaps his goggles down and rubs his hands together in anticipation. “Was _born_ for this stuff. Getting paid to blast something open? This is my kinda job!”

Gods, thinks Satya; she can’t fathom his insanity.

“All right,” says Tracer, “here we go! Locks disengaging! Better hold onto your knickers!”

The dropship door hisses as the mechanisms within unhinge and withdraw. The seal oxygen breaks in a loud roar and then the smooth glass surface starts to dip outward in an arc. Wind pours into the ship in a gathering swell, cutting past Satya and sweeping throughout the cabin. Her hair whips behind her in its tight tail, and if the goggles hadn’t been placed over her eyes, she’s sure she’d be squinting under the raw power of the gusts.

The door extends outward into an outer ledge. The grey surface of the carrier stretches over the expanse of sky below, and if she leans forward just enough, she can make out the black body of another ship tailing a fair distance behind. If it is Talon operatives, she finds it’s odd that they haven’t fired any shots. There are clearly weapons at their disposal, and yet the interference caused by her team has roused no response.

It’s a deeply unsettling feeling that sticks to the insides of her ribcage.

“Junkrat, it’s time,” prompts Mercy, straining to be heard over the rushing of the wind.

He glances to Satya through the orange of his goggles. “See you in a bit, yeah?”

“I’ll meet you down there once an opening is clear,” she replies. And then, against her better judgement, “Be careful.”

“No worries. I got no plans on dying today.” He scoops up his grenade launcher and slings it on a strap around his shoulder. With a mechanical hand entertaining the cord at the back of his neck, he steps toward the edge of the ship, gales threading through his blond hair as he assesses the world below in a swift once-over. “Ah, this’s gonna be one hell of a bloody drop.”

Junkrat licks his left thumb and holds it out, as if it might somehow help him calculate a trajectory. Satya doesn’t understand it; they’re going too fast, too high, and the wind will cut behind the ship regardless of its natural path. What will this accomplish?

“Junkrat,” says Mercy, urgent now, “we don’t have much time!”

“All right, all right,” says Junkrat, waving her off. “Don’t gotta tell me twice. Just do me a favor and rate the bang for me, will you?”

And without another word, he leaps out the dropship door.

Satya’s heart rockets into her throat as he spirals outside the ship. The hull of Mei’s carrier can be seen from below, perhaps one hundred feet, maybe more, and he dives toward it with a soaring speed. The cord pulls taut, and Reinhardt gives it more slack to let him drop. It’s a few more moments before Junkrat plants himself atop the carrier. She squints to see him crawling over the surface of the hull, grabbing small spaces and contours with his hands, and then an adhesive mine finds its way out of one of his packs and onto the gleaming silver metal.

The explosion is so very quiet, much more than she’d expected, and she’s not sure if it’s because of the din of the engines or if it’s one of his new models or if it’s because the world has been shut out at the very thought of him jumping out of a ship and risking his filthy skin. Thick, black smoke unfurls into the skies, trailing out behind the carrier, and when it starts to thin out and wisp away, she knows she’s next.

Loosely gripping her cable, her hand upon the projector at her hip, she takes the leap.

Leaving the barrier of the ship ripples through her marrow. The tight, gripping feeling of endless flight plunges through her chest and webs through her nerves; she’s falling, falling, plummeting toward the carrier, the horizon a crisp line between the sea and sky. The air is so cold, so powerful; it could rip her away and hurl her out into the world, but it doesn’t; she cuts through it, drifting in a backward swing toward the carrier below, and the blue above shivers around her as the roar of engines crushes in.

When the carrier rushes up to meet her, the cable rolls taut. Choking a breath, she’s given slack, and then she’s able to slide down and grab onto the uneven surface. Junkrat climbs over to meet her, his hair a spooling wildfire; the sun gleams over his skin and sets the orange of his goggles alight.

“Over here!” he shouts, and then reaches out to her with a beckoning hand.

She slips her fingers through his and grips so hard when he lifts her forward onto a steadier portion of the ship. Everything is dizzying, and the abrupt sensation of the body of the ship soaring beneath her is enough to send her to her knees. Her breath has been stolen from her lungs, and she turns her back to the wind to suck air in through her hand.

“Bot coming down!” says Junkrat.

Zenyatta rockets downward, one hand clasped around his cable. The golden prayer orbs and the brilliant aurum tassel glitter under the blinding sunshine, the glinting metal of his body a bursting star in broad daylight. Satya leans out to help him, but Junkrat tugs her back by the wrist. She’s about to reprimand him for being insensible, but Zenyatta crushes onto the top of the ship in a rather graceful landing. For how svelte and fragile he appears, his body must be far heavier; his sandals have been shed, and his arrival has punctured dents into the metal beneath.

With an affirming nod from Zenyatta, Junkrat climbs across the sloping edges toward the center of the ship where his explosives had sufficiently damaged the outer shell. As they approach the charred and smouldering opening, Satya is able to see thin ringlets of smoke trailing up from the broken edges and up into the atmosphere. Just beyond is the black bulk of the Talon ship, a looming mass in the distance, and Satya feels a clamor of dread claw down her spine at the sight of it.

Junkrat unclips the cord from her harness and lets it snap free. He seems content to let Zenyatta fend for himself, so Satya unhooks the monk’s for him, taking an extra measure to apply a photon shield across the structure of his metallic skeleton before attending to Junkrat. He kneels by the smoking opening to compensate for his height, and she finds that the plane of his back is contoured too well in the ample sunlight. Both his grenade-laced leather harness and the black meshed material pull taut over toned and strapping muscle, and if the powdered soot weren’t present across the plateaus of his shoulder blades and the rise of his neck, she swears he’d be handsome. Centering herself, she unfastens the cord tethering him to the ship, but not before ghosting the metal of her gauntlet in the small dip down his spine, the familiar shapes of hexagonal light melding in with his skin. Satya thinks she can see him shiver as she pulls away, but he is sans a shirt on top of a moving aircraft thousands of feet in the air over an open ocean; shivering wouldn’t be uncalled for.

As Junkrat makes his descent into the hull’s opening, the shadows above shift and the ORCA swerves away and draws back, the cables rolling up into the cabin. The dropship door shuts, and the pair of guns angled on the back end of the ship train their sights toward the Talon behemoth. The situation is off and something doesn’t sit right with her. This should have been far more difficult than it’s been; they should have been faced with some kind of retaliation from the other ship, and yet nothing has happened. What are they waiting for?

Something grabs at Satya’s shoe.

“Oi, c’mon,” calls Junkrat from below. “What you doing? Get in here!”

With a thick sense of unease coiling around her throat, she takes care to avoid the smouldering edges of the makeshift opening and starts to lower herself in. Her face feeling raw from the wind, she takes a deep breath as her head dips below the hull. The shock of the landing rolls up through her knees and along her legs, and it takes her a moment to gather herself before stepping to the side and allowing Zenyatta through.

When the monk lands, Satya notices that they’ve dropped into what looks like an extremely large supply closet. The explosion from their entrance has shifted things, but various items and kits are stocked about the shelved walls, ranging from medical supplies to parachutes to sizable cables and spools of wiring. There look to be spare parts, too, although she doesn’t know what they are or what they might replace.

Junkrat lifts his goggles to his forehead and lopes ahead toward the door, taking point for the group.

“Nothing,” he says. “Don’t see no one at all.” He glances down in the opposite direction, craning his neck to get a better view. “Seems awful quiet.  Reckon least someone would be about. Where’s the crew?”

“Perhaps we should make our way to the cockpit,” says Zenyatta. “There must be someone piloting this vessel. If this ship was sent solely for Mei to return to Gibraltar, then they must know of her whereabouts. It would save time spent trying to locate her.”

“I agree. That would be the best course of action.” Satya tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and tries to smooth out the mussed pieces that have escaped her drawn back tail before lifting her own set of goggles. “However, that poses the question of which route we should take. This is far bigger than our own ship. I haven’t seen an aircraft with so many rooms.”

“Don’t matter, really,” says Junkrat, stepping outside the threshold. He gives the options a once over before choosing a path to the left. “Shouldn’t be too hard to find, yeah? Just keep going toward the front of the place. Should turn up at some point.”

“That seems… unorthodox,” says Zenyatta.

“Oi, you got no room to talk, you walking toaster. Knick off with your natter.” Junkrat flashes him a wicked sneer before moving onward.

Meandering the ship’s empty corridors is an unnerving experience. The grating hum of the engines rumbles somewhere in the depths of the ship, but that’s all there is. No matter how much distance they cover, there is no activity from any living soul. The first few rooms Zenyatta pokes into hold nothing of import, and by the fifth open door with no apparent sign of life, it’s decided that there is no further point in investigating. Satya supposes it’s possible that any remaining crewmembers might have retreated to the inner chambers of the ship, or even to the front cabins, but the absence of _anything_ crawls a twisting sense of unease against the casing of her skull.

Finding the cockpit takes far longer than what Satya would like, but when they finally come across it, she is not at all prepared. She rounds a corner with Zenyatta and Junkrat at her back, and at the very end of the long stretch of hall where the cockpit would be stands a large sheet of ice encasing the wall, blocking the entrance completely. The entire thing is encrusted with layers upon layers of stark white hoarfrost—absolutely bizarre—and as they draw closer, she can see that it is far thicker than she’d thought.

“The hell,” says Junkrat.

“I agree.” Zenyatta approaches the ice and drags the tip of his finger down the edge of the door. “I have never seen anything like this. Was it purposefully done?”

Satya draws up to the door and inspects the ice. It’s several inches thick, fully formed, and with no sign of melting. Mist rises off of it as if it had been transported right out of the arctic. “This must be Mei’s work. Her equipment specializes in weather control. She must have done this to prevent anyone from sabotaging the pilot.”

“A wise move.” Zenyatta steps back, clasping his hands together in thought. “Somehow, I doubt our voices would reach the other side. I also find it unlikely that Mei would allow us in. To her, there is a chance we would be her pursuers.”

“So, what, we’re not getting in?” Junkrat tests the ice’s give with a light punch of his prosthetic. Small chips glitter to the floor in a feathery burst. “Can’t just stand here. Got a job to do. I’ll blow the bloody thing open if that’s what it takes.”

“That is too risky,” says Satya. “We can’t anticipate the blast here. It could do far greater damage in close quarters. What if something happens to Mei and those who might be on the other side?”

“Oh,” says Junkrat. His mouth firms into a frown and he seems disappointed. “Right. Hostages. ‘Course. Complicates things.”

Zenyatta nods to her photon projector. “What about your weapon?”

“What about it?” she asks.

“I am not familiar with its technology, but it seems to have a light-based energy source. Does it emit heat?” Zenyatta glances to the ice wall, a hand touching his chin. “Perhaps we might melt it.”

“That’s stupid,” says Junkrat, giving the monk a pointed glare. “You serious? You just wanna wait around while she _melts_ it with a fancy hairdryer? We ain’t got that kind of time, scraphead. Don’t care what either of you say, I’m blowing it up.”

“It was only a suggestion,” says Zenyatta. “By no means is my word law.”

“Damn right it’s not,” says Junkrat, and he digs through one of his bags to produce another model of explosive.

“Junkrat,” says Satya, “ _please_ be conscious of our surroundings. We can’t afford to—”

“I know, I know. I know what I’m doing. Just sit back and keep your knickers on.”

Junkrat hooks up a series of smaller charges around the outside of the doorframe, tracing a path about the structure where it would be at its weakest. The ice offers a very slick surface to work with, but whatever model he’s developed has an oddly obstinate adhesive backing, so he strings them about and places them where he pleases. When he’s finished, he plucks a detonator out of one of his various pouches and motions for both her and Zenyatta to step away down the length of the hall.

“Might wanna cover your ears,” he says with a broad grin. “Don’t remember how big this one’s gonna be. I reckon we’ll be in for a real nice surprise.”

Satya cups the shells of her ears with her hands and hunches inward in anticipation of the blast. Forearm against one and wall against the other, Junkrat smashes his thumb over the detonator and the deafening rumble of an explosion wracks down the hallway. When the smoke clears, large shards of ice litter the ground by the cockpit; the glacial wall has splintered apart, cracked around the shape of the door, and despite whatever sort of reinforcement the metal possessed underneath, Junkrat’s charges burst it wide open.

“Beautiful,” he says, loping back toward the cockpit. Kicking pieces of ice to the side with his peg leg, he grabs a hold of the bent metallic sheet of the door and pushes it inward. “Oi, anybody home in there?”

A foot-long icicle pierces the air right past his head.

“The _hell_ ,” he shouts, staggering backward.

Satya draws up to him with quick steps and pushes him aside. She peers through the crack between the threshold and the crinkled door, and from what little she can see, there is a small woman in a vibrant blue parka huddled inside. There appear to be a few other bodies stationed at the pilot and gunner chairs, although she can’t discern any faces.

“Mei-Ling Zhou,” she says, “please, we mean you no harm! We are with Overwatch—we’ve come to answer your distress call!”

“I don’t believe you!” Another icicle hurls right at her face, and Satya scrambles to the side to avoid its impossibly sharp edge. “You’ve come for me now that everyone else is gone, haven’t you? Well, I am _not_ giving up. Winston will be here soon, and so will Lena and Doctor Ziegler. You’re not getting in!”

“We was _sent_ by them, mate,” says Junkrat. “The ape told us to come get you out of this tin can, but we can’t right do that with you launching ice spikes through the bloody door!”

Zenyatta approaches the doorframe. “Mei-Ling, we’ve come to bring you to safety. The Overwatch agents’ ship is just outside, along with your old friends. Our colleague, Symmetra, will provide us with a teleporter to connect our vessels.”

“How do I know you’re not with them?” Mei approaches the damaged door with cautious steps. She clutches what looks like a weapon in her hands, although it’s too far away for Satya to see its design. “How do I know you’re not trying to trick me?”

“Right, look, okay. Listen here, Snowball. You see us wearing all that fancy gear they got?” Junkrat waves his prosthetic at her, showing off the grungy orange metal of his self-made creation. “Answer’s no, you don’t, ‘cause we’re not with them. The doc and your gorilla mate been tussling with ‘em for whatever reason and sent us down here to grab you. You gonna open that door anytime soon?”

Although still distressed, Mei appears somewhat calmer than before. With a guarded gait, her heavy boots scuffing against the cold floor, she draws closer to the threshold and appraises Satya, Junkrat, and Zenyatta through the fissure between the jamb and the crumpled metal. Her face is round, gentle, her eyes a dark brown behind black glasses frames, and the brunet mess of her hair is pinned into a tousled bun.

“They boarded us,” she says, the plane of her brow rumpling. “Dozens of them. So many people sacrificed themselves to keep them from reaching this room. I don’t know how many. They came through, anyway.”

Mei glances over her shoulder, back toward the front of the cockpit. The tall-backed chairs and glowing consoles collect amongst sets of jutting railing within, all framed by the cool expanse of sky beyond the room’s glass paneled windows. As Mei’s gaze lingers over the bodies sitting among the seats, it occurs to Satya that the bodies there are just that— _bodies_ —and there are no survivors.

“The ship is on auto-pilot and set for a course out to the ocean,” says Mei. She cradles her unique weapon between her gloves, her teeth settling on her lower lip. “That’s the last thing Jian did.”

“Mei, you said there were dozens that boarded this ship.” Satya grips at her gauntlet, an awful knotting down beneath her belly as the warmth in her blood drains to frost. “Where are they?”

“I don’t know, to be honest.” Mei stands on her tiptoes and peers out behind them with a craned neck. “I… I dispatched some of them, but after I brought up the ice wall, the rest went away. I thought they were just going to gun the ship down since they couldn’t get through, but nothing happened. It’s been like this for an hour, at least. Just… silence.”

A distant rumble can be heard toward the back of the aircraft. The floor quakes in an intense shudder, chunks of ice skidding toward the walls.

“Symmetra,” says Zenyatta, “I believe now may be a good time to create your teleporter.”

“Mei, please, let us in.” Satya glances behind her; Junkrat stands with his launcher primed and ready, taking watch. “I have an ill feeling we have fallen into a trap.”

The familiar cadence of footsteps echoes down the hallway. Satya doesn’t want to turn back around, but she does, and at the end of the corridor is a group of ten agents, their bodies enshrouded by a sleek black garb. Firearms of varying calibers are in their possession, ranging from heavy rifles to compact handguns, and an overwhelming feeling of dread plumes down her lungs. They are at the end of a hallway with no cover, no place to hide, and only one source of firepower in the form of a lanky madman.

“Junkrat,” Satya breathes.

“On it,” he replies, and pulls a mine from one of his packs. The muscles up his back rope taut as he prepares to aim. He grins at her, gold gleaming, the amber in his eyes aflame. “Don’t you worry, love. They ain’t getting nowhere close. Just get that door open. Me and the bot’s gonna have us a barbecue.”

She shifts her gaze to the monk, stunned. “Zenyatta?”

“Focus on the task at hand, Symmetra.” He joins Junkrat’s side, the sleek silver of his body shifting under the light as he winds himself into a combative stance. “This intrusion will be dealt with accordingly.”

Her heart thumping in the back of her mouth, Satya grips the crinkled metal face of the door and starts pushing with all of her might. Mei grips onto it from the other side, leveraging her bodyweight to peel it backward. It gives way surprisingly fast; she presses her hip against its surface, shouldering her strength into the push, and it slowly pries away from the frame with a clanking groan of protest.

Behind her, commotion has broken out. She can hear Junkrat’s delighted laughter as he launches his homemade bombs down the length of the corridor, and she can hear the subsequent punctuated explosion of each as they make their marks. Gunfire peppers to her left, but nothing seems to be getting through, and she’s not sure why until she takes a look over her shoulder.

Zenyatta, burning alight with a serene glow of gold, hovers in a meditative state at Junkrat’s side. The aura encompasses them both, acting as a makeshift shield; the floor beneath him is littered with a mosaic of smoking bullets. Sizable rounds roll around beneath the tassel dangling from his waist, and the more the agents unleash their firearms, the larger the pile becomes.

Gods, she thinks; his power stops _bullets_.

“Almost,” says Mei, scrambling to wrench open the rest of the door. “Just a little more!”

Satya grits her teeth and pools the last of her strength into one final push. With a harsh, grinding creak, it snaps off its hinges and clatters to the floor. Mei wastes no time in joining the fray; she gathers her weapon from her hip, twists its valve, and fires an icicle down the length of the hallway. It whisks right by Junkrat and plunges into the neck of a Talon agent, impaling her against the back wall in a spatter of red.

“Nice one, mate,” says Junkrat, “but I got something better.” Grinning at Mei, he wrenches a grenade from his harness, bites the pin, and hurls it down the length of the hall toward the cluster of Talon agents. “Open wide you wankers and shove this down your gob!”

The explosion punctures through Satya’s eardrums, but she wells it down and draws the photon projector from her side. Conjuring a blot of ammunition for its chamber, she presses it in and holds the trigger. Sapphire energy builds within its claw, swelling into a massive charge, and without a second thought, she jumps past Mei and unleashes it down the corridor. Its movements are ponderous, but in the aftermath of Junkrat’s grenade, it brings a devastating follow up that few of the enemy agents can escape. Satisfaction seats between her lungs, warm and radiating, and while there is still a note of disquiet that lingers, she has to remind herself: there is no choice here. Sacrifice is necessary for the greater good.

With the gunfire brought to a halt, Zenyatta breaks his meditation and lowers himself to the floor. Calmly, he glides a single prayer orb from the circle at his throat. As it floats in his palm, a dark void of purple emanates from the golden surface, engulfing everything around its immediate space. With a sharp twist of his arm, he sends it hurtling toward one of the recovering Talon agents. Its dark fire cuts through the air, spreading an unnatural plume of wrongness and unease, and it latches to the agent as if it were somehow magnetized to his aura. The man visibly crumples; he clutches at his head and his knees buckle and his body hunches inward, and he starts to sink to the floor.

“Walk in chaos,” he intones, and the remainder of Zenyatta’s prayer orbs rise from his neck and splay the air around him in an aurum arc. An eerie azure energy emits from each, gathering among them in a wavering shiver. Mechanical hands poised for combat, he rushes forward and sends each sphere’s glow piercing toward a different foe, eliminating the each of the remaining contenders in a single burst.

For a moment, everything is still.

An amalgam of sanguine and debris collects among the crumpled bodies. The carnage spanning across the metal floor is disconcerting, shrapnel and pooled fluid and discarded firearms, but the operatives no longer pose a threat. A thick tang of blood and chemical reagents lingers through the air, and Satya finds herself covering her nose in attempt to stamp out the overwhelming smell.

Zenyatta’s prayer orb returns to him in a leisurely waltz, its discordant aura dissipating into nothing. “It appears we are victorious.”

“It seems so,” says Mei, and she lowers her weapon to her side. “I really appreciate the help, everyone. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“Wouldn’t go thanking us just yet if I was you.” Junkrat turns to Satya, slicking a stream of sweat from his temple with the inside of his wrist as he slings his launcher around to the strap over his shoulders. “Still got us a job to do. Ain’t that right?”

“That is correct,” says Satya. “I can provide a way to safety. I will deploy a teleporter for our use. It will transport us back to the ORCA so we can rejoin the others.”

Satya draws in a breath and settles it within, but before she can imagine the construct in her head, a deafening boom sounds somewhere outside and wracking tremors climb throughout the entirety of the ship’s structure. She leans against the wall for support, and Mei tumbles back against her.

“They’re firing now,” says Mei, panic tempering her voice. “The ship has already suffered substantial structural damage from before. It won’t last under this!”

Another quaking blast can be heard, closer now, and the floor beneath trembles under the impact. The Talon aircraft must be flying somewhere overhead; more gunfire pummels the top of the ship, convulsing through the corridor, and then the ceiling cracks inward with a shuddering din. The keening of the wind pulls down into the ship, coaxing everyone toward the ruptured opening.

“Everyone, quickly, inside, inside!” shouts Mei.

Junkrat and Zenyatta sprint after her into the safety of the cockpit, Satya following just behind. Once she slips past the doorframe, Mei twists a valve on her weapon and a new ice wall is raised in place of the shattered remnants of the previous. The gales are brought to a halt, but the howling continues just beyond the glacial barrier.

“Symmetra,” says Zenyatta, “now is the time.”

Satya nods in reply. Sucking in a deep breath, she weaves her hands together and pulls them apart as she holds the schematic in the center of her mind. She notes each point, each curve, each line, and eases the geometry into the world as a shimmering wireframe. Its complexity folds and multiplies with each turn of her fingers, far more than the simple turrets she’s created, and there is a note of pride resonating within her as the translucent body takes shape. Kneeling, she weaves its existence onto the floor before the group. It takes a moment, but the familiar shape of the portal soon materializes atop the teleporter base.

“There,” says Satya. “The path has been opened.”

The rumbling above escalates. An impossibly large shadow blacks out the skies surrounding the cockpit, and then shards of glass burst in under the impact of another blast. Gales pour into the room, ripping open the windows in a flourish; everything is being drawn toward the gaping opening with gravitating strength. She doesn’t know what happened, but something must have hit the engines or another vital component somewhere in the carrier’s machinery, because everything slopes in a downturn as the ship dives toward the sea, and there is nothing anyone can do to right it again.

Satya reaches out and clasps hold of the pilot’s chair, wrapping her arm around its back as the wind whips through her hair and sucks at her heels. The body that had once inhabited it has been pulled toward the cracked openings in the cockpit’s enclosure, and is promptly wrenched out into the sky beyond. The carrier begins to tip further into a nosedive; gravity gives way and the world feels like it’s plummeting with her.

Above, the Talon ship passes overhead, apparently satisfied with the damage it wrought.

The teleporter base rests under Zenyatta’s foot, planting it against the flooring. He grips onto a nearby railing several feet away, prayer orbs magnetized about his neck and Mei clutched close in one arm. Mei clings to the slender shape of his waist, locks of her hair sweeping in front of her eyes. Her weapon is hitched at her hip and the bulk of her equipment stays strapped across her back.

“Symmetra, Junkrat,” calls Zenyatta, his voice a solemn thread through the chaos, “are you able to reach us?”

Junkrat has managed to grapple onto a bar that has been set into the cockpit’s wall far to the left. The shattered windows are just by him, and he grits his teeth with a fierce determination as he resists the wind’s coercive pull.

“Not really,” he shouts, jerking his head toward the source of the problem. “Sort of in a spot here, ‘case you hadn’t noticed!”

With the tumult of the gales in her ears, Satya reaches out to Zenyatta with her gauntlet and motions toward the teleporter. “Go through,” she urges. “Take the path! The others are waiting. You must bring Mei back!”

“We must leave _together_ ,” says Zenyatta. “I will not allow either of you to stay behind!”

Roping her strength into her legs, Satya climbs across to where Mei and the monk are situated along the railing. “What matters is that Mei gets to safety,” she insists. “Quickly, through the teleporter. There is no time. The both of you, go!”

“Symmetra, please,” says Zenyatta, “you mustn’t—”

“ _Go!_ ”

Coiling her muscles, she shoves Zenyatta through the portal with all of her strength, and both the Omnic and Mei disappear through the rippling blue static. Before she can stamp her foot over the edge of the teleporter’s base, it whisks away toward the crack in the sky. She holds her breath as it hurtles toward Junkrat; he tries to swing forward and snatch it with his good hand, but he’s not fast enough; it’s sucked out of the cockpit and out into the world beyond. Hanging onto the bar, body forced against the whim of the wind, Junkrat utters some sort of curse she can’t hear over the howling wind. He reworks his grip and gazes over at her from across the room.

“Right, so,” he shouts, “there goes our way back, and this thing’s on its way down. What’d we do now?”

“I can create another teleporter base,” she replies, gripping onto the rail, “but I need both of my hands. I can’t do it with just one. And if I let go to try, I’ll—” She glances over to the shattered opening, the yawning maw of the open sky beneath, “—I will share a similar fate to the last one.”

“Can you get yourself over here?” He glances over the expanse of the cockpit, eyeing the bolted chairs and railing to find a suitable path. “Probably not ideal, right, but if you need both of ‘em free, I got you. Won’t be for long, but might be a better shot than us just sitting here.”

With her pulse thrumming in her neck, Satya tries to make her way across. She climbs down the extent of the railing, muscles straining through her arms, and stretches herself to reach the pilot’s seat. After she’s ensured she has a good hold, she crosses over to the console where either the co-pilot or the gunner had once sat, and then slowly inches her way toward the mirrored railing that arcs along the opposite side of the room. The wind pulls at her body as she transfers herself to the rail, and for a moment, she feels as if she’s going to be swept away, but she clenches her fingers and sets her jaws and keeps moving.

When she’s just close enough, she reaches out to him with her right hand. Teeth sinking into his lower lip, he keeps his prosthetic clenched upon the bar and tries to meet her halfway. The gales continue to swoop in and muss her hair and howl through his beyond the strapped goggles on his forehead, but he gathers the strength in his body and uses the wall to push himself close and then her hand is clasped with his.

“Right, right, okay, hang on,” he says. His features contort with exertion, but he doesn’t budge. “I’m gonna have to guide you here, all right? Only got one arm to work with. Need you to grab on soon as you can. You ready?”

She isn’t. There’s no way she could possibly be ready, not for this, but she nods and tries to keep her heart from bursting.

“C’mon, let go,” he says, and Satya lifts her hand away from the rail.

The muscle of his arm contracts and he wrangles her in to meet him. There is a fierce pressure in her hand, his fingers laced through her own and his palm crushed right against her lifelines, and a distinct burning pull crawls up her arm. She reaches out to catch his body, but the wind shifts, and then she’s sailing toward the open windows where the sky looms just beyond. His hand slips free; she’s consumed by the gusts, the sensation of flight blooming beneath her ribs, and then the hard shape of Junkrat’s arm coils tightly around her waist.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” he says, tugging her against his chest. “You ain’t going nowhere. You gotta make one of them things for us first. And be quick about it, yeah? Arm’s starting to give out.”

Satya is flush with the plane of his pectorals and the sharp line of his collarbone, but she forces a swallow and tries to focus. With the tumult of the world around her and the inner chaos of herself, she struggles to find a center. The roar of the wind soaks through her hair and burrows down to her lungs, wedging somewhere between the hammering of her heart and the shape of her diaphragm, and everything seems to amp up into a clamoring scream; the ship is falling and the sky is a shock of blue beyond the shattered glass and Junkrat is holding on by pure will and time is running out; and no matter how she spars with herself and no matter how she moves her hands, there is nothing for her to create.

An explosion quakes throughout the hull of the carrier far beyond the cockpit. A blown engine, perhaps, or something worse; the sound is too harsh, too overwhelming, booming down beneath her bones, and everything wells up around her in a crushing vice. The pressure of Junkrat clutching at her with his good arm is not enough to ground her; this is not like Ilios, this is not like the midnight under the pale face of the carved moon; this is fear and turmoil and _how do I save us_ and _I can’t even do what I do best_.

“Don’t know how much longer I can keep hold,” he says, shifting his arm under her ribs. “Really, really starting to hurt now. You got that thing ready yet? Now would be a real bloody good time to pop it in here!”

Satya’s throat is tight and she can’t do this but she can’t give up, she can’t; she didn’t make it this far just to _stop_ ; she didn’t conquer Vishkar’s academy and she didn’t ascend to architech and she didn’t become the best at her craft for _nothing_ ; and so she closes her eyes and attempts to shut the world out. In the static darkness pressed beneath her eyelids, she summons the schematic into view. She _knows_ this, she does; it’s not difficult, it’s nothing like bridges or buildings or the intense architecture of cities, but the lines seem smudged across her inner lens. They blur into something indefinable, something she cannot reach, and her hands pose useless symbols between them as the knowledge slips into nothing.

“C’mon, gotta do this fast.” Junkrat’s grip adjusts about her waist, but Satya starts to slip. “Don’t got much more in me!”

Adrenaline pools through her blood and she’s panicking and everything is too much—

“Junkrat—”

“I know, I know,” he says, gnashing his teeth, “fuck, I know, s’too much, just, can’t—can’t keep hanging, can’t, m’sorry, gonna have to—”

He’s going to drop her, she thinks; he’s really going to drop her, she’s going to fall, she’s going to die, she’s—

“JUNKRAT!”

The world opens up beneath her in a massive maw. Clouds unspool across the horizon in delicate wisps, and the shadow of the ship eclipses the burning sun above. The air steals her breath and burns her eyes and she finds herself gasping as ice punctures her lungs. Her hands shove the goggles down out of reflex, and while tears sting at the crescents, she can see through the liquid blur.

This is it. This is how things are going to be. She’s going to plummet to the ocean and she’s going to be devoured by deep blues and starving animals and coral and seafoam. Her body will be an ocean wreck, and her bones will be left on the cold sea floor to erode into the waves. She will never return to Overwatch, she will never return to Vishkar; the world will move on without her presence, and it will be better for it.

_I don’t want to die._

“Symmetra!”

Arms are cinched tight around her waist. Junkrat has curled around her body, his legs framing her thighs and the pressure of his chest flourishing against her spine. She glances upward, startled, and he gazes back down at her through bright orange lenses. His hair is a whipping mess, sculpted into vertical spikes by the wind, and she’s never been so glad to see the soot smudged across his forehead.

“Got you,” he says.

Her voice is trapped somewhere in the confines of her throat, and it takes far too long to pry it out. “I thought you—I thought you’d drop me.”

“The hell’d I do that for? You’re my way outta this mess! I ain’t dropping you.”

“No,” says Satya. “You’ve dropped both of us instead.”

“Yeah, well, didn’t have much choice, now did I? Them lot wasn’t coming to get me outta that hunk of scrap if I stayed. Reckon jumping’s better than crashing in a tin can with water all ‘round.” He twists behind her, hooking his hands right beneath her ribcage. “‘Sides, when your arm’s screaming bloody murder, you best listen else your shoulder up and tears itself and then you ain’t doing nothing for weeks. Rather not lose the rest of me arm, if it means all the same to you. Well, not like it matters now.”

Everything is so surreal. The horizon rolls out into a smooth line, an amalgam of where the heavens and the ocean draw together in a kiss, and despite the tight feeling of flight roiling through her body, there is nothing but a cold tranquility that stills the heaving noise in her mind. There is no destructing ship; there is no fear of being sucked out into the sky; there is no worry of Zenyatta or Mei; there is just her, Junkrat, and the world below.

“You can’t open one of them things out here, can you?” he asks.

“I need… I need something to ground it. Some kind of surface.” Satya clenches her hands, nails digging into the flesh of her palm. “It makes it easier to bring in. I can’t do it like—like this. We’re _falling_ , Junkrat.”

“I got eyes, y’know. Problem now is we’re en route with a first class ticket to the big bloody blue. Hope you got gills.” He tightens around her, and he cranes his face around by her neck. “Say, what’d you reckon our chance of surviving is?”

She doesn’t understand why he’s so calm, so lighthearted. Of all people, she’d expected him to thrash and fight to stay alive, but he seems oddly resigned to his fate. Amused, even. He’d even said he had no plans to die today. How on earth is he like this?

“I—I don’t know,” she manages over the wind.

“Eh, probably not good. High fall, dropping who knows how many kilometers right into the ocean. Dunno, though. Never done it before. Might be a chance, yeah?” His prosthetic tucks tighter around her as the blue of the sea draws closer. “Oi. Since we’re gonna be dead soon, I got a secret for you.”

Satya swallows. He’s so very cold against her, all of the heat drained from his skin, but the pressure of him keeps her tense. “What is it?”

“I can’t swim.” A nervous, trilling laugh wells up from his chest behind her. “So I reckon even if there’s a chance of living through this, I’ll be dead anyway. Not the way I thought I’d go, honestly. Rather not drown. Better if it was up in flames. Least then it’d be warm.”

He’s shivering, she realizes. The man who is fire incarnate is _shivering_.

Satya brings her hands together and envisions the schematic of the teleporter base. With the atmosphere being void of noise and distraction, it’s crisp and clear again, and she understands exactly what she needs to do.

“We’re not going to die, Junkrat.”

He hisses a breath against her. “Yeah? Don’t get me hopes up, Symmetra. What makes you so sure?”

Satya weaves the world between her fingers. Beads materialize, threads spiral in; sharp edges and gentle curves and inner circuitry all web together into the sleek wireframe of the base she had tried so desperately to conjure before. Her hands sculpt the geometry she clutches in her mind, and soon enough, there is a translucent body between her palms.

“I am going to open the path,” she says.

“You—you what?” Junkrat hunches over her shoulder, staring down at her fingers as the sky spins around them. “Wait, wait, wait, you just said you needed something _solid_ , walls, floors, whatever—the hell’s going on? You lying to me?”

“I am not lying, and I am not going to die here,” she says. “Neither of us are.”

The wireframe shudders with her as the sea swells up toward them, the taste of salt watering on the back of her tongue. She knows she needs to pull it into reality, but there is nowhere to place it. Everything is open and endless and so terribly blue, the clouds marring the perfected design of the earth, and without a proper surface, she needs to find somewhere to wedge her creation in.

“The hell you doing?”

Holding her breath in the spaces of her lungs, Satya pools all of her concentration inward and twists her hands away. Down below, far below, farther than she’s ever managed, the base is written into the air. Its body is polished ivory, reflecting the harshness of the afternoon sun, and she squints under its gleam.

It takes a moment, but the blue static starts to coalesce.

“I swear,” says Junkrat, “I _swear_ , swear on me mum’s grave, if you pull this off I’m gonna—”

The teleporter rushes up at them, the path opened wide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art that has been made for this chapter by SUCH AMAZING LOVELY PEOPLE on tumblr -
> 
> @bowlersandtophats - [the corridor](http://bowlersandtophats.tumblr.com/post/146873671953/a-scene-from-your-body-is-a-weapon-chapter-26-by)  
> @maribopuppy - [hands](http://maribopuppy.tumblr.com/post/146892888237)  
> @raedoodles - [the fall](http://raedoodles.tumblr.com/post/146900963122/holy-smokes-that-chapter-26-that-chapter-26-do)  
> @buttsmut - the fall: [page 1](http://buttsmut.tumblr.com/post/147080834957) | [page 2](http://buttsmut.tumblr.com/post/147087047772) | [page 3](http://buttsmut.tumblr.com/post/147121162972)


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little come down from the high.

The voyage back to Gibraltar is spent at Junkrat’s side.

Satya sits on the floor of the ORCA’s cockpit, a large grey blanket cloaked about her shoulders. The low purr of the ship’s engines pervades the air around her, pulling down through the marrow of her bones and humming under the palpitations of her heartbeat. Despite her body being firmly planted upon solid metal with a cool wall pressed to her shoulders, all she can feel is the gripping sensation of flight paring her nerves asunder.

Junkrat rests to her right, legs spread and goggles hung around the column of his neck. A thick black cover has been swathed around him to still his shivering. From what she can tell, it seems as though his body is starting to recover from the severe temperatures of the drop. He still trembles from time to time, consuming yet brief, but it’s nothing compared to how he felt against the curve of her back.

Against the opposite wall, the teleporter base she’d created upon the ORCA’s departure from Gibraltar lies dormant. Entry was less intense than she’d anticipated. When she’d melded through the portal above the lapping waves, everything seemed to suspend in a shimmering pocket of light. The world twisted and slowed in a plane she remembers too briefly; glittering shards burst around her in monochrome spectrums of white and blue, and the edge of the horizon did not exist. Whatever speed they’d been plummeting must have been rewritten and repurposed into something else, because when she refractured back into reality, she’d crumpled safely to the floor, Junkrat cinched around her in a shuddering mess.

The portal behind her had remained open only moments before dissipating. The teleporter she’d created might have plunged beneath the waves, or the ORCA’s distance might have been too great. Regardless, if she had managed to conjure the matching waypoint any later, the connection between the two might not have held. The transfer would have been impossible.

Satya doesn’t know whether the outcome was by luck or by design, but she is beyond grateful she’s still breathing.

“How’re you two holding up back there? Any better? Warmer, at least?” Tracer glances over her shoulder from the elevated pilot’s seat, her hair a feathered mess. She had been the first to witness their arrival, and she’d summoned the rest of the team to assist. They’d poured in almost instantly, Roadhog at the forefront of the greeting party. There’d been too much yelling for Satya’s taste.

“A bit, yeah. Lot better than what we would’ve been.” Junkrat shifts beneath the blanket and adjusts his posture against the wall, tugging the folds closer around his shoulders. Another shiver climbs down the length of his body, but he shrugs it off with a shake of his head. “Still cold, though.”

“The cold is from shock, I believe. It may also be due to extreme temperatures at such a high altitude. Either is quite likely.” Mercy climbs the stairs to the cockpit, another cover folded amongst her arms. Her smile is soft, relieved, almost motherly, and she approaches Satya with measured steps. “To be honest, it’s a wonder neither of you suffered any wounds. I expected to perform a far more drastic triage.”

Satya returns the smile. “Without Zenyatta, you might have been. He acted as our shield when we were ambushed by enemy agents. I believe had he not been present, everything would have taken a completely different path. I’m thankful he accompanied us.” She notes Junkrat’s set jaw and furrowed brow at the monk’s name, and she absently wonders if he acknowledges the integral role Zenyatta played.

“He said you pushed him through the teleporter,” says Mercy. “Is that true?”

“Yes. The focus of this mission was to rescue Mei. It was necessary that she return safely.” Satya folds her hands beneath the blanket, her fingers tracing the joints of her gauntlet. “I did what I had to do to ensure we were successful.”

Mercy stoops into a kneel and unfolds the cover. It’s of a thick fabric, some sort of wool, perhaps, and dyed a delicate purple. With its ample length, she’s able to spread it over both Satya’s and Junkrat’s legs. It holds its own heat, she finds; warmth spreads through her slacks and seeps down through her skin in a soothing sweep.

“When you didn’t appear with Mei and Zenyatta, we were all very worried.” Mercy’s gaze flicks between Junkrat and her, concern shaping the gentle contours of her face. “And when the ship started to go down, all of us feared the worst. Everything was so damaged; we thought you were caught in its destruction. The enemy vessel retreated afterward, but our efforts were useless. There was nothing we could do except wait. And wait we did.”

She places one hand upon Satya’s leg, and one upon Junkrat’s. Locks of blond hair frame smooth cheekbones and blue eyes, sunshine reflecting off of the golden haloed crown of the Valkyrie. It strikes her as odd, but Junkrat’s crude moniker of Ol’ Angel Wings is somehow appropriate.

“Thanks to the both of you, we were able to rescue a very close and valued friend today,” says Mercy. Satya doesn’t think she’s ever seen a more genuine smile; all contentment and white teeth and the start of soft crow’s feet tapering at the corners of her eyes. “You have my sincerest gratitude. All of our gratitude, in fact. I know I speak for everyone when I say we are very grateful.”

“‘Preciate it, but don’t go thanking me,” says Junkrat. “I just blew up a couple of walls and some tossers needing a lesson. Rest of it’s all ‘cause of her and her glowy hand tricks.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Satya. She firms her mouth into a frown and appraises him with a pointed look. “We wouldn’t have been able to complete the mission without you, either, Junkrat. You allowed us to board the ship in the first place, and you countered their ambush. The reason we were successful is because we cooperated and worked as a team, even under such dire circumstances.”

“Right, right, yeah. Teamwork. You’re not wrong.” He gives a grin beside her; she doesn’t know how he looks so smug, but he does, and it simmers in places it shouldn’t. “Still, you got both the bot and Snowball off that ship. There’s two. And then you saved both our necks. That’s four. Reckon we’d have been shark bait or worse if we’d kept going. I’d say that least earns you a point. So, we’re at what now, three to two?”

“You prevented me from being pulled outside the ship,” she says. “If you are going to use that logic, we should at least be tied.”

“Right, but we ended up outside that tinny anyway. Was no way we could’ve avoided it. Just would’ve happened a lot sooner if I’d missed you and you went sailing out. Don’t matter, though. It’s three to two now. I’m not hearing no arguments.”

“All right, that’s enough you two. I won’t have you bickering over something so silly. _All_ of you are safe and sound, regardless of what happened, and that’s what matters.” Mercy rises to her feet, concealing a chuckle behind her hand. “Once the adrenaline wears down, you should get some rest. I know the seats here aren’t the most comfortable, but I assume they are better than the floor. Recovery is very important, you know.”

She turns on the ball of her foot and descends back into the main cabin, the wings of her Valkyrie armor gleaming under the afternoon sunshine.

Silence ticks by in minutes, disturbed only by the swelling thrum of the ORCA’s engines. The tight feeling of endless falling finally starts to smooth out under her skin, tension uncoiling down her neck and through her shoulders, and she finds herself victim to mounting exhaustion. There is no heaviness at her eyelids, but the core of her body seems somehow weighed down, anchored, as if her bones sprouted roots and she took to the metal for nutrients and succor.

Satya peers at Junkrat out of the corner of her eye. The sunshafts from the cockpit windows illuminate his windswept hair in a soft, gentle gold, his adam’s apple a prominent swell in the slope of his throat. His eyes are half closed, staring across the length of the floor to where the inert base of her teleporter rests by the opposite wall. He is remarkably still despite the occasional shiver, she notes; there is no tapping, no twitching, no building, no toying with his grenades. He simply sits and stares and draws in steady breaths, nestled in the blanket that shrouds his body.

Is he all right?

Her throat tightens. A sliver of her wants to say something, but the syllables lurk back behind her molars where she can’t pull them out. Her tongue is dry and raw, sticking to the bottom of her mouth, and the words won’t form.

Tracing the cool metal of her gauntlet, Satya turns her gaze back to the teleporter.  She supposes his lack of sleep over the past few days hasn’t done him any favors. He must be in poor shape, she assumes, although he’d performed very well throughout the duration of the mission, and he had seemed as alert as ever on the carrier. Then again, he did just freefall a massive distance toward the ocean with the asphyxiating fear of being pulled beneath the water in the back of his mouth.

It’s so very strange, she thinks, to hail from a country surrounded entirely by water and yet not know how to swim. Is it because of his missing limbs and chosen replacements? Had the state of the Australian Outback prevented him from learning such a skill due to dangerous waters or irradiation? Or was it something else altogether, like a traumatic event? Satya finds it unlikely he would indulge her curiosity on a whim, especially something so personal, but he had divulged something close to his heart when he perceived himself near death. Perhaps it’s not entirely out of the question.

Junkrat shifts beside her, peeling back part of the blanket to free his arms. With a practiced quickness, he leans forward and unfastens his leather harness latched with his smile-etched grenades. He folds them among themselves in a makeshift bundle and sets them off to the far right where his grenade launcher keeps watch. He then tugs Tracer’s goggles off from around his neck and sets them close by. Satya bites at her tongue; there are clear lines of where the straps were across the muscle of his chest and shoulders. It’s difficult to tell what might be soot and what might be tanned skin, but it sends a hot lance between her lungs.

Flexing his left hand, he stretches out the stiff tendons and works off the stained fabric of his glove with his mechanical fingers. A dark bruise still spans the length of his knuckles, tangible proof he’d well-earned his point in Ilios, and she winces as he massages the injury against his prosthetic. With a soft groan, he then brings his palm to his chin to twist and banish the cracks from his neck before leaning back against the wall.

Satya catches his gaze. The warm amber of his eyes seems so vivid, and yet a tiredness sculpts shadows beneath them under the cool, clear skies from the cockpit’s windows. His brow is furrowed, his expression a jarring amalgam of tranquil and solemn, and it harpoons between her ribs in an uncomfortable twist. Her heartrate had only just begun to slow from the fall, and now it’s on the incline again.

“Oi.” His voice is quiet and low, another thread among the hum of the engines. “You’re a real bonzer girl, y’know. Don’t care what you say ‘bout the bot and Snowball. Only reason we’re still kicking right now’s ‘cause of you.”

Her throat is far too dry. It feels as though granules of sand have collected beneath her tongue and absorbed all of the moisture out of her mouth. Something tight and foreign wedges where air should flow, shoved among the structure of her diaphragm, and breathing now seems like such an unnecessary feature.

“You popped us outta there right ‘fore things got nasty. Don’t know how you did it, but I’m real glad you did.” His lips pull into a grin. Tugging the blanket back around him, he leans his head against the wall and laughs. “Fucking air travel. When we get back, I swear, I’m giving the ground a nice big kiss.”

“Is that what you meant?” she asks. The fall is cut crystal in her mind: the sky, the ocean, his resignation, the cold of his body, the timbre of his voice against the wind.

“Meant what?” Junkrat eyes her with rumpled puzzlement. “What you talking about?”

“When we were falling,” she replies. “Just before we went through. You swore on your mother’s grave.”

Gods, Satya hates this. She can’t help but remember the way he was crushed against her as they dove down toward the open portal. It was out of necessity, she knows, but the pressure of his chest, the weight of his arms, and the sheer grip he had around her waist imprints down beneath the fabric of her clothes and into the pores of her skin. When they had emerged on the other side of the portal, entwined in a disheveled heap, he’d held onto her far too long. Or had he? Had she imagined it? Had their leap through the light suspended time, too?

“I did?” He swallows, his adam’s apple dipping down. His mouth thins and his jaws work together in a slow roll, and she thinks she can see pink tip his ears. “Yeah. Right. Guess I did.”

Satya doesn’t understand his reaction. “What did you mean to say?”

“Ah, nothing. Nothing important. Just… y’know. Yabbering.” Junkrat shifts his legs under their shared blanket, raising his good one into a bend. “Things just was looking awful grim toward the end there, what with the water getting so close and all. Got a bit yappy. Not you, though. Miss Order’s prim and proper the whole way through. Even went and made us a way out.”

“I was not quite so composed,” she admits, tracing her robin’s egg nails down the shape of her left hand. “I will be honest, I wasn’t sure if I could accomplish it. Under normal circumstances, I require something stable. It’s how we were taught. We use the world as an anchor to ground our ideas into reality. This lets us manipulate light how we see fit. To place something beyond the earth is… extremely difficult.”

“Strewth. That’s luck, now, innit?” Junkrat chews at lower lip. “Only ever been this lucky once.”

It was not luck, she wants to say. It was not luck, it was _design_ , but she can’t know for certain. Everything is composed of a wavering balance between design and disorder. Luck and flukes exist, but there is also a grand schematic that overlaps the world. It draws people and events together in the fashion they should be, coaxing them by their spindling strings. Sometimes the strings are cut; sometimes they are entwined; sometimes they splice and meld and become something new.

Perhaps the world has a further purpose for her.

“Y’know, Roadie said we’d probably regret joining this gig.” Junkrat stares out at the teleporter base, amber eyes holding a warm glow under the sun. “Wasn’t too keen on it, right, said it was too big. Worldly. Don’t normally jump for jobs like this. Last time we went and trusted some suit to do his work for him, bludger did a bit of backstabbing and wound up with his nice big building blown to bits. But this feels different. I reckon this’s a chance for us to branch out. Gotta say, world order’s not on me list, but you lot of goody-two-shoes ‘save everybody’ types ain’t so bad.”

“You aren’t so bad yourself,” says Satya, and she desperately hopes she won’t regret stating it aloud. “You might be mad, but… well, there are times where you seem fearless. It’s admirable.”

“ _Fearless_. Ha! Now that’s a new one.” Junkrat bites at his tongue, the corners of his mouth pinched in a smirk. “First brave, now fearless. Making me sound like some sort of hero with all them compliments. You know you’re saying all this on purpose.”

Satya wrinkles her nose. “If you’re going to be like that, you should just ignore it,” she says.

“Yeah, nah, I think I like it. No one’s really said nothing like that ‘bout me before.” He slides off his blanket and begins to bundle it together in a haphazard wrap. “Well, Roadhog’s called me bullheaded and a pain in the arse. Probably means well, bloody heifer, but ain’t nothing like fearless.”

With the cover held over his shoulder, he shimmies himself up against the cockpit wall. The pouches around his lean hips jingle with their various contents, and he tosses his glove into the corner with his harness and cluster of grenades. As he pushes off the wall with his elbows and starts to walk away, Satya notices the stark glimmer of the hard-light blade holstered around by the back of his belt, almost completely eclipsed by one of the larger packs.

“I think I’m gonna get me some shut eye,” he says, waving two fingers goodnight. “Nearly dying takes it right out of you, don’t it?”

“Junkrat,” she says.

He pauses and glances over the roping muscle of his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Where…” Her voice is not as calm as she’s willing it to be, and she hates it. “Where did you get that blade?”

For a moment, Junkrat seems bewildered. He twists around, tucking the blanket around his neck, and searches his belt for the dagger. When his fingers curl around the leather sheath, he slides them up and pops the blade out by its hilt with a light tug. The glimmer of the afternoon sun sets the silvern sapphire surface agleam.

“What, you mean this?” he asks.

“Yes.” Her heartbeat drums within her. It shouldn’t be so loud. It _shouldn’t_.

“Nice, innit? I like it. Pretty colors and a wicked sharp edge.”

He gazes at her, gold soaking his hair and the glint of aurum between his teeth. The faded freckles hidden beneath the soot that shrouds his shoulders bloom down the stark lines of where his harness once was, and she finds herself clenching her nails into her palm. In spite of his filthy mess and all of the slouching and explosives and crude language, there are brief moments where he stands nice and proper. There are moments where he holds himself with a lazy sort of confidence, where he delves into his work and builds with the fierce passion she knows far too well, and there are moments where his eyes could house liquid fire and unfettered chaos.

All of it—his rough demeanor, his thick accent, the fervent dedication to his work, his lame humor, everything—it all strikes her as _destructively_ attractive, and she doesn’t understand _how_. How did she end up like this? How did he manage to wrench himself under her skin and affect her this way? Has she truly become so susceptible to disorder?

Junkrat smirks, a thick and pointed canine settling on his lower lip. It sinks there and she watches the wet red of his tongue as it traces by. “Got it from a new mate of mine. She’s dynamite.”

With a shrug, he slips the hard-light back into its leather sheath. He starts down the stairs toward the ORCA’s main cabin in his unique gait, the cover held over his shoulder.

Satya clutches at her gauntlet, mind spun apart and appalled at her own weakness. The blankets wrapped around her feel entirely too hot and there is a lump in the middle of her throat.

Did…

Did he just call her a friend?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art that has been made for this chapter by SUCH AMAZING LOVELY PEOPLE on tumblr -
> 
> @loveluminated - [downtime](http://loveluminated.tumblr.com/post/147122434959/downtime-for-vargs-your-body-is-a-weapon-ch27)


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. This is the Second Thing that Must Be.  
> 2\. It's not as exciting as you think.  
> 3\. The Third Thing will be far, far better.

Satya skips supper in favor of solitude by the sea.

With the warm ocean breeze on her cheeks, she sits on one of the grassy outcrops toward the outskirts of the compound. The last shimmers of sunset smooth out over the horizon, painting the cresting waves in ripples of orange and red. Dusk has begun to settle into the cool navy skies as the distant blots of stars blur in, and the sliced waxing moon presses up through the dark.

Gently, she tugs the thin tie from the knot of her hair and lets the heaviness of it all drape down her back and shoulders. Zephyrs pull through and sweep black strands across her face, but she breathes in the humid air and tries to ignore the stickiness of perspiration dotting at her temples. The right sleeve of her Vishkar blouse has been rolled up to the bend of her arm, and she savors the soft touch of the breeze as it curves past her palm and kisses the underside of her wrist.

Perhaps it would behoove her to join the others. They’re expecting her, after all, especially in the wake of Mei’s daring rescue, but she lacks the energy for socialization in large groups. And that’s what this team is becoming, she realizes; it’s expanding to encompass a real cause. When she’d first arrived at Gibraltar, there had only been Winston, Tracer, Torbjörn, Reinhardt, and herself. Mercy had not yet arrived, and neither had Genji or his Omnic master or the pair of junkers. With Mei’s presence, their group totals eleven, and she supposes there are still others out there that have yet to respond to Winston’s recall.

How many will flock to this fledgling phoenix? Its ashes are old, and yet they still smoulder with a righteous conviction.

Satya traces the pad of her thumb over the inner palm of her gauntlet, mapping its contours and where metal meets meshed joints. While she is no longer thousands of feet above the ground in a plunging freefall, she can still feel the lingering prickles of flight ghosting on the outsides of her lungs. The wind carves by her body, gentle and soft, and she recalls the distinct pressure of his arms cinched across her belly and the plane of him curled down the length of her back. Junkrat is a tall and wiry man, but he’d engulfed the space overtop of her as he clutched her close.

Unbidden, a shiver clambers through her bones.

There is no question: he needs to get out of her head. He really does. There’s no reason for any of this. Regardless of how he might look or act or however she responds to him underneath, she does not need this kind of madness pulling at her. He’s too much, too wild, too distracting, and in the shivering aftermath of both the fall and the voyage back to Gibraltar, he apparently now considers her a friend.

The thought of it pinches something by her heart. She doesn’t understand why he would; she hasn’t done anything any other member of the team wouldn’t have done in her stead. There is nothing different between her acting as she did and someone like Mercy doing the same. Protecting one another is paramount, regardless of the creeds or behaviors of those involved. It’s only logical.

Her behavior is like that of any other teammate, and yet here she is, participating in a game that centers on saving one another—not the rest of the team, no one else, _just us_ —and not only that, she works with him during combat, holds some semblance of conversation with him, and visits him in the dead of morning underneath the workshop lights when he’s exhausted himself into a heavy doze at the back tables. To further tack onto all of the mounting evidence on how her behavior in fact does mirror the rest of the team’s, she’s allowed him to look over the workings of her hard-light gauntlet, one of the most cherished and precious possessions she owns, and _touch_ it with his hands. She’s let him claw his way through whatever interpersonal barrier she’d tried to cobble in his path as if it were nothing but shorn papier-mâché, and now here he stands, the melded gold and charcoal and soft skin of him taking shape behind her eyelids, and she finds herself completely, wholly…

… _furious_.

Gods. What exactly is she supposed to _do_ about this? This kind of thing didn’t happen at Vishkar. Nothing like this would have ever happened at Vishkar. The academy was fierce, brutal; anyone who proved themselves less than worthy was promptly dismissed, and relationships of any kind among students were strongly discouraged—and, now that she thinks about it, possibly punished. The structure within the company itself differed little. Employees held significant others and families, but such fraternization among themselves was unheard of. Imagining such a disastrous man among their ranks ripples prickling gooseflesh down her arm and churns away at her stomach. If he ever would have appeared in the corporate office, they would have thrown him out, and half of her feels viciously satisfied at the thought of security in uniformed suits dragging his filthy hide outside the grand glass doors.

Satya doesn’t allow the other half to voice its opinion. It’s more than a reminder of the fact that she shouldn’t be reacting this way. She shouldn’t like the slope of his back, the mantle of his shoulders, the gold in his mouth; she shouldn’t like the way he talks or the passion he shows for his work or the fire in his eyes. She shouldn’t like the crazed genius in him, she shouldn’t like his body, and she shouldn’t like the bloody rest of him, but she _does_.

And now, after everything, he thinks she’s a friend.

And what’s worse: after everything, he’s _really_ not so bad.

This never should have happened, she thinks. Right from the start, she knew she should have kept her distance like she’d originally intended before things went downhill at the ruins. After he completely destroyed her workspace without any prior thought, she should have known things would have turned out this way. What is this, exactly? Irony? Is this the universe’s way of having a laugh? Keep to a strict and proper regimen your entire life, adhering to rules and regulations and perfecting order in the world, and then the absolute opposite of all you’ve ever loved and admired shows up in a dusty patchwork pair of shorts with soot on his shoulders, a grenade in his hand, and a fiery gleam in his eye?

Gods.

This is…

This is far, far too much.

“Symmetra. What a pleasant surprise.”

Even footfalls draw up behind her, each a soft huff over the grass. When Satya turns, she glances upward to see the silver visage of Zenyatta appraising her in the dying light of the sun. His shabby yellow robes flow through the light breeze, ends swishing by his wooden sandals and his lengthy sleeves billowing out in full stretches of shimmering fabric. The golden prayer orbs encompass his neck in their gradual glide, their etched surfaces alight with a fading glimmer.

“Zenyatta.” Welling down the thoughts of Junkrat, she tries her best to retain what she thinks may be a neutral expression. “I thought everyone was attending dinner. Shouldn’t you be with the others?”

“Perhaps. However, I feel I have stayed long enough. Genji was enjoying the conversation of others, and while he is my pupil, it is not my duty to watch over him.” His voice fluctuates in a mechanical chuckle. “And not minutes ago, Reinhardt provided a particularly strong drink from a cask of some kind. Torbjörn joined him in consuming it. There was a great deal of commotion involved.”

“I do not see their competition ending well,” says Satya. She allows a smile to pinch the edge of her mouth at the image of the giant grizzled veteran and the blond stout Swede chugging mugs. “Leaving might have been a good decision.”

“I believe we are in agreement.” Zenyatta motions beside her with lithe fingers. “May I join you?”

“Of course.” Satya scoots to the left and allows him ample space.

The monk folds his legs and lowers himself into a graceful sit at her side. The soft hum of his inner architecture purrs beneath the cadence of the waves lapping at the rocky beach below. His robes fan out behind him and flutter in the warmth of the breeze as the golden slew of prayer orbs glint in the last edge of the sun, and he folds his hands into his lap, as if expectant.

“You were very courageous today,” he remarks. “I extend my sincerest gratitude.”

“I was only doing what needed to be done. You do not need to thank me, but I do appreciate it.” Satya acknowledges him with a nod. “You know, you also performed quite admirably. I don’t know what would have become of our group had you not shielded us.”

“Like you, I also was doing what needed to be done.” He turns his head to look at her, the timbre of his voice smooth, solemn, almost melodic. “And, like you, I also appreciate the thanks.”

Satya regards him under the coming dusk. The color of copper touches at the sides of his face, obsidian etching down the visible mechanics in his neck. Rust gnaws away in the tight corners where metal plates meet. Zenyatta may be an older model, but it is evident he knows how to handle himself. She would have expected his slender skeleton to hold him at a disadvantage against gunfire or blunt weaponry, and yet from the encounter upon Mei’s carrier, it seems his abilities remove him from such situations with relative ease. Despite two men’s obvious objections, she sees no reason why he shouldn’t accompany the team on future missions.

The ocean continues to crash down below the jagged faces of rock. The sky slowly suffuses with twilight, marred by the glittering expanse of the sharpening starscape above, and the widening slice of moon cuts out a quarter crescent. Beside her, Zenyatta remains soundless and still. Perhaps it’s due to his polite and benevolent demeanor, but she finds herself enjoying his company.

Several minutes of silence pass before he shifts beside her.

“Symmetra,” he says, “does something trouble you?”

The sudden question has Satya somewhat taken aback. “What?”

“Perhaps it is too forward, but you are very plain to read. There is a certain aura of disquiet about you, and your body language was very terse when I arrived.” Zenyatta glances in her direction, the smoothness of his face a slate gleam. “Your withdrawal from the celebration also speaks volumes.”

“Is there a particular reason you’re analyzing me?” She doesn’t know whether to feel bewildered or encroached upon. No one has ever approached her this way.

“No, there is not. I simply wanted to see if there was a way I could assist. I might provide the path to peace again, if harmony is what you seek.”

The imagery of Junkrat wells up in her mind’s eye, and she’s again reminded of why she’s so uncomfortable. There are so many things she could have done to avoid this, and even with all of her precise plans and ritual routines, she couldn’t foresee any of it. The distaste she holds for her own vulnerability is consuming, and she knows her predicament is not something meditation could cure.

“I believe I need more than half an hour’s worth of peace,” she replies.

There are few ways a being with little to no distinguishable facial features could portray puzzlement, but Zenyatta manages it with an inclined tilt of his head. “I’m sorry, I do not follow.”

“Tell me something.” Satya covers the metal of her left hand with the lifelines of her palm. “You utilize meditation to achieve inner peace. What happens when there is something that prevents you from reaching it?”

Zenyatta is silent for a moment, and then says, “You may need to elaborate further.”

“Something does trouble me,” she admits. “But this is not like before when we met on the roof. This isn’t explosive noise. This is… internal. Disruptive. Frustrating. It’s not something I can run away from.”

“Chaos,” Zenyatta supplies.

“Yes. I think that would be a fitting term.”

“I see.”

The nine-point etchings upon Zenyatta’s forehead have become less and less discernible in the coming dark. Smoothly, he raises his hand to one of the orbs floating around the corded column of his throat. The sphere follows his beckoning in a delicate twist, and he holds it out in the stretch of his palm for Satya to observe. It hovers above the sculpted metallic shape of his hand with a serene grace.

“There are two forces in this world,” says Zenyatta. “They are equal and opposite, and they are locked in constant struggle. In spite of this, they also rely on one another, for one cannot exist without the other.”

A gentle wave of his fingers triggers something within the sphere. The intricate engravings upon its surface shift apart, minute metal etchings plying open by the curve of his gesture, and a fierce, golden light pours from inside. It engulfs its small body, burning as a second sun; the intensity pressures Satya to squint, and even though she does, it imprints white circles under the darkness of her eyelids.

“The first is harmony. It is what others perceive as a force of good. It is predictable, constant, and it manifests creation. This is what humankind seeks, both to cherish and to recreate. This is what structures the world. It brings peace and order. Its presence is so highly sought that some may use questionable methods to obtain it. Its influence should never be discounted.”

Zenyatta lifts his right hand from his lap and guides another orb from his neck. Fingers spun together, he clenches inward as if he were attempting to make a fist. The sphere responds in kind and bursts in a flourish of dark, marbled purple. The sphere becomes voidlike under its rippling color, both in property and appearance; the distance between herself and Zenyatta is sizable, but there is an obvious pull toward its fiery surface.

“The second is discord. It is what is perceived as a force of evil. It is unpredictable, chaotic, and sews destruction in its wake. Its power is seen as something terrific to behold, as it conquers with ease. Disaster sprouts from such a force, and yet it paves the path toward new futures through its chaos. Necessary evils may be eliminated with its use. This allows for reconstruction and rebirth.”

With a gentle nudge, Zenyatta coaxes the golden sphere toward Satya. It floats the distance between his palm and her shoulder in an elegant hop and seems to magnetize to her presence. The vibrant light emitting from its carvings shines fiercely, and an immediate air of calm descends upon her shoulders with heavy hands. Fond memories plunge to the forefront of her mind: the chiseled visage of the Vishkar agent who had chosen her, the close and intimate ceremony with her peers upon the academy’s completion, the gleaming prototype of her hard-light gauntlet cradled in the development laboratory. There is an overwhelming desire to close her eyes and ease into the encompassing comfort, but she resists.

“Harmony and discord are neither good nor evil,” says Zenyatta. “There is nothing inherently good to order. There is nothing inherently evil to chaos. They are but two mirrored forces pressed into coexistence. They share the world with one another, forever upsetting the balance and reestablishing it in circular patterns. Without harmony, there is no discord. Without chaos, there is no order. It is much like an ouroboros; when they are equal and together, there is wholeness.”

He holds out the orb still cupped in his palm. Deepening purple swells from its center, radiating out in the unsettling image of an imploding star. Its presence is implicitly wrong, although she cannot say how. With a tentative hand, she reaches out to accept it, and Zenyatta releases it onto the plane above the crossed valleys of her lifelines. The sphere doesn’t touch her, and yet it holds a vast heaviness about its body that she can only describe as _strange_.

“There must be balance.” He regards her with an inclined head, the silver of his faceplate agleam under the aurum aura from the first sphere. “You need not seek enlightenment to achieve balance. Establishing such a balance between harmony and discord will grant tranquility to the mind and the spirit. You seem as though you wish to escape discord. That is not possible. It always exists in one form or another. You have faced it time and time again throughout your life, and you will face it many times to come.”

Satya stares at the rippling void in the cup of her hand. “I have known nothing but function and order. Vishkar was the epitome of harmony. Nothing was out of place. Everything had its purpose and everyone had their use. We functioned, we performed, and we sought to bring our ideals to the world. It was for the betterment of humanity. We could cleanse the bottom dregs and develop perfection in their place. This was my purpose in the world. This is what I was meant to do.”

“Was?”

The sphere turns in a counterclockwise spin. Dark amethyst blooms around it, coiling in a fierce fire, and in the basking light of its counterpart by her shoulder, it does not seem so frightening. Drawing in a tight breath, she brings the orb at level with her face. It emits a strange coolness, she finds, and through the vivid meld of color, she can see through to the elaborate etchings on its sleek surface. She can’t remember it being like this before, but in spite of the deep smoulder of purple, the sphere _does_ hold its own source of light, however faint.

“I extricated myself from Vishkar, so my purpose with them has been suspended,” she says. “The understanding is that it is to be a temporary arrangement. Winston helped negotiate. The initial thought was for a year, but I see now that the endeavor of restoring Overwatch may take more time. Currently, this organization is my purpose. But this organization is nothing like Vishkar.”

Zenyatta nods. “I doubt many organizations would be.”

“I don’t think you understand.” Satya watches the roiling chaos as it shifts around the body of the orb. It fills her with a shivering disquiet, and she doesn’t know why. “The culture there is far, far different. Disorder is crushed. It is ugly, dysfunctional, useless. It makes madmen out of sensible people and brings turmoil. And here, in this watchpoint, it is openly accepted. There are those who hold questionable pasts and no one speaks of it. There is no uniformity. Just… acceptance.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” Zenyatta reaches outward, coaxing the prayer orb back toward him. Its dark, voidlike fire trails in its wake. “There is no running from chaos, Symmetra. You admitted so yourself. There is little we can do outside of accept its presence and strive for balance.”

“I think I wanted to be wrong.” The smoking image of Junkrat coils up in the looming black, his hair sweeps of golden flames and his eyes a pair of glowing coals, teeth bared and glinting. “Or I’d hoped for an alternative. This concept is… foreign to me.”

“I understand. I also sympathize. Culture shock is not such an unrelatable experience. I suppose that is what this might be classified as, correct?” With a flick of his other hand, the sphere encased in brilliant light leaves the space by her shoulder. He draws both together between his palms, aurum and amethyst, two sides to the world, gliding alongside one another in swirling suspension. “However, there are no new answers. It is the same as it has always been: balance.”

“How do I do such a thing?”

“It is unfortunate, but that I cannot tell you. Each individual interprets the world in a different way. There is no correct path to achieve balance. It is something that must be discovered on one’s own.”

Satya turns her gaze down to her hands. The white metal of her gauntlet is a soft and muted silver under the cover of dusk. Pinching her fingers together, she channels her inner focus and weaves a spindly wireframe between them. It glows with a soothing luminescence, something she’s come to associate with her own vision of harmony, and she raises the rudimentary design for Zenyatta to see.

“This is what I do,” she says. “I bend reality to my will, and I create. It is my way of shaping the world. I do not know if it gives balance, but it’s what I’ve done since Vishkar selected me. I have been able to achieve great things through their tutelage. They are the reason I can do what I can.”

“Ah, I see,” says Zenyatta. “So you are the builder. Tell me, do you feel distress when your creations are destroyed?”

Satya furrows her brow. “To an extent, I suppose.”

“And yet you continue to build. You will always build. You build in the face of chaos and rebuild in its shadow.” Zenyatta allows his hands to rise, and the twin spheres circle into the air above in a vibrant display of clashing color. “As you said, it is your purpose. But it has not been suspended because of your absence from Vishkar. Vishkar is also not the reason you are who you are. Had you not been granted their technology, you still would have found a way to build. It is written in your components, Symmetra.”

Collapsing the wireframe into a burst of beaded blue, Satya laces her fingers and stares out toward the ocean. “How do you achieve balance?”

“You might wish me to say discipline, but that is not the case,” he says. “The truth is that there is no easy path. Time and acceptance were the paths I took. They were long and arduous, but I found what I sought at the end.”

“Acceptance.” Satya glances at the chiseled crystal in the palm of her gauntlet. “There truly is no running away, is there?”

Zenyatta shakes his head in reply. “I am afraid not.”

“I don’t know if I _can_ accept this. It isn’t a part of me. It never was. I’ve never felt—”

She stops herself short, biting down on the flat of her tongue. It’s painful, but it doesn’t compare to the coals kindled and smoking down beneath her breastbone. If only she’d kept her distance, she thinks; if only she’d ignored him; but she couldn’t leave him to bleed out against the pillar and she couldn’t have let Genji wring his throat and she couldn’t have let him perish beneath the waves.

“I am merely telling what I have learned through my personal experience. You need not force anything. You are the builder, focused on creation and order, and it is understandable that this would be a momentous task. However…”

Zenyatta flourishes his hands outward in an elegant gesture. The twin spheres begin to orbit one another, twisting among themselves in a circular pattern, and he draws them further above. Their contrasting light burns her eyes, and Satya resists the urge to look away.

“Should you wish to pursue it, you need not do it now. And you need not do it all at once. Remember: regardless of what you choose, it is a path. Paths are for walking. You must pace yourself. Nothing so complex is accomplished in one sitting. You must forge your way.”

Paths, he says. Satya is no stranger to paths.

She gazes at the discordant fire under the cover of the looming twilight. Its presence is abnormal and extraordinary, but it seems less unnerving than when she had encountered it aboard the ship. It held the power to bring a man to his knees; it crumpled him into weakness, and it also provided the means for her, Zenyatta, Mei, and Junkrat to escape.

Behind her eyes, the crashing waves of the sea swell upward as the jagged static of the portal opens up to meet her. Junkrat clenches at her waist and shivers at her back. The path is before her, open, ready, alive, and she has no choice but to keep falling.

Her decision is clear.

Perhaps friendship with a madman won’t be the disaster she anticipates.


	29. Chapter 29

Satya enters the communal washroom to witness a shouting match.

To the left, Mei and Junkrat are arguing in front of the white porcelain sinks and spotted mirrors that line the wall. Toothpaste appears to have been involved, as there is an open and crinkled tube on the cold tile by their feet, smeared mint sticking to the lip of one of the sinks. It’s unclear exactly what happened, but whatever it was, Mei is not happy about it.

“You are nothing but a bully!” Mei’s hands are balled up into tight fists, her features scrunched in frustration. The pale blue nightgown she wears seems to have been caught in the toothpaste crossfire; its pallor is marred by copious blots of pastel green, dropped right down its front.

Junkrat towers over her, arms folded, his nest of hair mussed and tousled from sleep. His usual grubby trousers are missing, Satya notes, and in their place are a slim pair of moss-colored undershorts that accentuate the cut lines of his hipbones. If she’s honest with herself, she never quite imagined him having more than one set of underwear—or any at all, in fact—but her thoughts rewind to the dripping man in the shower stall and the discarded swatch of cloth upon the floor, and she finds warmth rising in her face.

“Oh, come off it, Snowball,” says Junkrat, breathing a sigh. “How’s I supposed to know you’re as good as blind ‘thout your other eyes?”

“Because they’re my glasses and I need them to _see_ ,” she says. Her short hair is rumpled and strewn, her eyes flaring with a punctuated displeasure. “What on earth made you think this was a good idea?”

“Was just having a laugh,” he says with a shrug. “Didn’t mean for the stuff to get all over you. Reckon it’s a bit sensitive, innit?” He kicks at the toothpaste tube with his peg leg, seeming rather pleased with himself; his countenance is shaped with sharp delight, his laughs high and lilting. “Y’know. Sensitive. ‘Cause you got the stuff for sensitive teeth. Says so right here.”

“You don’t need to explain it to me,” says Mei, groaning into the sanctuary of her palms. Exasperation knits through her voice and clambers through the edges in her face, and Satya wonders exactly how long he’s been teasing her. “Ugh, and even if you didn’t mean it, it _did_ get all over me, and I’m not laughing. I didn’t exactly bring a lot of clothes with me, you know. Now I have to wash everything.” She huffs, snatches a cloth from the sink, and begins to scrub at the front of the nightgown. Unfortunately for her, all it seems to do is exacerbate the problem. “You could at least apologize for being an inconsiderate jerk. I don’t understand why you’d do this!”

“Inconsiderate jerk, huh? Now why you going about saying stuff like that?” Junkrat glances over Mei’s short frame and catches Satya’s gaze. Something catches under her ribs; a corner of his mouth pulls into a slick grin, and she begins to deeply regret her decision for a morning shower. “Oi, Symmetra,” he says, “quick question for you! Snowball here’s having a fit. Am I an inconsiderate jerk?”

Satya regards him with a wary stare. She holds a towel to the front of her pyjama blouse, clutching a tote of bottled shampoos and other supplies in one hand, and she wonders if it would be worth just darting across to the showers on the opposite side of the washroom. Weighing her choices, she glances toward Junkrat, and then over to the dividing wall. She may regret getting involved in… well, whatever this is, but she supposes that would pale in the potential of him following her should she choose to ignore him. She would rather not have to deal with him tailing her to one of the shower stalls.

“I do not want any part of this,” she says, and provides him with a sharp glare in hopes of getting her point across.

Junkrat’s smile only widens. “See? What’d I tell you?”

“Refusing to answer is not an agreement with you,” insists Mei. Her eyebrows are drawn together and set, her jaws rigid, and frustration is evident. “You can’t just claim she supports you with a neutral response like that. That’s not how this works at all!”

“‘Course it is,” he says. “She’s a mate of mine, yeah? That means she’s on my side. She’s with me now. Gotta stick together.”

Satya maintains her even stare. It’s difficult, to her chagrin; it feels as though every time there is a period of absence from him, however brief, she tends to forget the pleasant contours of his shoulders or the etched ridges of his hips. “I did not realize being friends with you would encourage harassing other teammates,” she says, careful to keep a steady tone. “Is this really what you’re going to leverage me for?”

“Aw, c’mon, it’s just a bit of fun,” says Junkrat. “Nothing serious. She’s new, yeah? Call it initiation or something.”

“I don’t recall you doing anything like this to Genji or Zenyatta,” says Satya. “In fact, I remember that ‘initiation’ going rather poorly. It resulted in a particularly unpleasant bruise, if memory serves.” She shifts her weight and straightens her back into something more confident, and there is a slight smile that edges at the corner of her mouth. “Or was that something else?”

Junkrat’s swagger visibly deflates. He hunches forward, arms crossed, and his smirk melds away into something far less smug. She’s not quite certain with the lingering smudgework that swathes his face, but she swears hues of pink flush the tips of his ears.

“I apologize in his stead, since he seems incapable,” says Satya. Placing the tote on the floor and setting the towel to drape over the side of one of the nearby sinks, she draws up to Mei and leans down to inspect the damage. There’s quite a bit of toothpaste; it seems at least a quarter of the tube had been splayed all over the fabric and down the sink. “Well, at least the fabric is light. It might take a few washes, but it should come out. I believe Mercy has something for stains you might be able to use.”

Mei pulls at the nightgown in distaste, squinting to compensate for her lack of glasses. Her attempts at cleaning up the toothpaste thus far have been in vain; without water, it’s done nothing but smear and spread further across its front. “I still think he’s a jerk,” she says. “I don’t have any spare night clothes. This was very mean-spirited of him.”

“I’m right here, y’know,” says Junkrat.

“I agree. It was rather childish. Don’t worry, he won’t be doing it again.” Satya glances up at him and holds his gaze with a firm look. “And you won’t. Will you, Junkrat?”

Junkrat’s mouth thins into a crooked line. Whatever enjoyment he’d gleaned from Mei’s situation seems to have run dry. His eyes are a muted amber under stark fluorescent, his brow beetled in disappointment, and she somehow finds herself enjoying his obvious discomfort. Perhaps it’s the color in his ears.

“All right, all right, fine,” he concedes. “If you’re gonna make such a big deal about it, I’ll lay off. Sheesh, you lot’re bloody boring.” With a flippant wave of his prosthetic, he makes his way toward the washroom’s exit, the soft noises of his bare foot and the metal of his peg scuffing the tile floor.

“Junkrat,” says Satya.

“Yeah?” He pauses mid-step to peer over his shoulder. The lines of muscle working up the length of his back are too pristine and the plateaus of his shoulder blades are far too prominent. Small birth marks stipple by his lower back, his side, just by his spine, and there is a latent desire beneath her bones to connect and map them with the tip of a pen upon his skin. There are constellations on his body, she realizes, and a minute sliver of her clamors for further knowledge of the stars.

“If—if we’re to be friends now,” she says, “by your logic, that means you must be on my side, too.” Satya folds her arms, appraising him as he hangs in the washroom doorway. It takes a decent amount of willpower to keep her focus on his face. His undershorts fit well. “Do try to be more cognizant of your actions.”

“What d’you mean by that?” His eyebrows furrow inward as he pivots halfway on the ball of his foot. Somehow, his profile is all the more flattering, and it does nothing to help.

She draws in a short breath. “Be nice, please.”

“But I was,” he argues. “She just don’t like jokes, that’s all.”

“I don’t think it counts as a joke if I can’t see,” says Mei.

“One girl’s opinion.”

“I agree with her, Junkrat,” says Satya.

“Right. Two, then.”

“And we outnumber you. Whatever you did, it was in poor taste. Look at her.” Satya gestures to Mei’s outfit with robin’s egg nails. “You have plenty of other opportunities, you know. There is no reason for this, and on her second day here, no less.”

“All right, fine, fine.” Junkrat exhales noisily through his nose. “M’sorry, Snowball. Just don’t be coming after me with one of them ice spikes, yeah?”

“Apology accepted, I guess,” says Mei. A sly smirk creeps onto her face. “I can’t promise about the icicles, though. After this, I think you might need something extra to drive the _point_ home.”

Junkrat’s mouth pinches into a grin, and a trilling laugh works out of him. “That so? Oh, you best be ready, then. The rest of that’ll find its way to you when you ain’t expecting it. Maybe when you go to conk out, you’ll get a nice _mouth_ ful on your pillow.”

Something wicked sculpts Mei’s features. She paws at Satya’s hand, her eyes narrowed. “Where’s the toothpaste?”

Somewhat confused, Satya bends to the floor and snatches up the tube. It’s half gone, she realizes; most of it appears to have been squeezed onto the sink or Mei’s nightgown. Careful not to get any of the green paste on her fingers, she gingerly hands it over.

“Thanks!” Mei squishes it together in her hands, crumpling it up into a makeshift ball. The distinct tang of mint fills the air as it smears on her skin. “Just you wait until I get my glasses back, you jerk,” she shouts, and tosses it in Junkrat’s general direction.

It misses. Terribly. Thanks to Mei’s poor eyesight (and, Satya assumes, lack of depth perception), it’s almost comical how wide the throw is. There is ample space between Junkrat and its sailing trajectory, and yet he still sucks in a breath and bends backward in an exaggerated swerve in attempt to save himself from the crunched and hurtling toothpaste tube. Satya doesn’t understand the need for such a vaudevillian display, but she suppresses a laugh with her fingers against her lips.

“Oh, that was a close one!” Junkrat wrangles himself into recovery, the lean plane of his stomach constricting taut as he regains his usual posture. With a satisfied smile, he eyes the harmless ball on the floor and the splattered blots of mint that mark its landing. “Bit more to the left, and I think you would’ve caught me hand.”

Mei giggles. It’s light, delightful, and has a charming ring. “Oh, you can bet I’ll catch more than that with my glasses on. You’d better get moving, or you’re going to need a bath once I’m through with you.”

Satya doesn’t bother to hide her grin any longer. “He already needs a bath.”

“Oh, I know,” says Mei. “He really does, doesn’t he? He looks like someone put him in a toaster a bit too long, all covered in that.”

“You know, I believe Tracer said something similar,” says Satya. “She called him a burnt piece of bread, or something along like that. Crispy around the edges. Honestly, I’m inclined to agree. He does seem somewhat crispy.”

“All right, all right, both of you, ‘nough with the tag teaming. S’not fair.” Junkrat scowls, but the telltale curve of his mouth belies whatever sort of displeasure he’s attempting to portray. “Symmetra, you’re supposed to be on my side. Mates, remember? Why you off helping her?”

“I think you are a strong and capable man. I’d assumed you would be able to handle a little friendly ribbing.” Satya steeples her hands together, the metal of her gauntlet pressing against the pads of her fingers, and she points them in his direction as she soaks in the rare sight of him sulking. “Nothing like a good dose of your own medicine. Isn’t that how the saying goes?”

“Right.” Junkrat bites at his lower lip, teeth rolling at the soft skin, and she’s almost certain his ears are starting to tip with a faint pink again. “Right, yeah, well, I’ll get you back. Just you watch. Both of you. I don’t leave no debts, mark my words.”

“Oh, I’d like to see you try,” says Mei. And then sheepishly amends, “Well… when I can actually see, at least.”

Satya can’t help it. “See that you don’t make a spectacle of yourself.”

Mei pauses, turns about, and gives her an incredulous look. “Did… did you just—?”

Junkrat succumbs to a fit of raucous laughter in the doorway. It has almost the same hyena-like consistency as during combat when he’s slinging grenades. “Oh, that was _perfect_ ,” he crows, his prosthetic hand coiled into a fist and striking at his thigh. “Don’t think I could’ve said it better myself!”

“He’s rubbing off on you, isn’t he?” Mei frames her hips with her hands in a disapproving stance, but the curve of her lips say otherwise. “That was awful.”

“It was,” she admits, pressing a smile into the back of her hand. “It won’t happen again.”

“Oh, no, no, go on, do it again!” says Junkrat. He leans against the threshold, his good hand splayed across his stomach as he breathes in shaky inhales to recover. “Hah, that was gold. Really. Loved it. Looks like you’re on my side, after all!”

“Okay, okay, that’s enough. Go on and shoo, Mister Rat. I need to clean up.” Mei shakes the toothpaste-covered cloth at him. “Or I’ll go get my endothermic blaster _and_ my glasses, and then we’ll see just how good your dodging skills are!”

“All right, all right, I’ll piss off. Just no ice spikes, yeah? I’d rather not have some lobotomy or some extra holes in me neck, if it means all the same to you.” Junkrat flashes a grin, specks of gold glittering in his mouth. “See you girls in the grub hall. Take your time, though. More lollies for me.” He flicks two fingers at Satya in a hasty salute and lopes away, the rhythm of his peg clicking against the floor behind him.

A moment or two passes, and Satya finds herself releasing a confined breath from within the spaces of her lungs. She doesn’t remember her diaphragm seizing up and she doesn’t remember the aching need for oxygen. When had she stopped?

Glancing to the mirrors at her left, she finds a remarkably disheveled woman in the reflection of the water-spotted glass, softened and rumpled with sleep. The overhead lights cast a harsh gleam through the thick of her black hair; her pyjamas are wrinkled, her expression oddly cheerful, and she can’t help but notice darkened marks that collect beneath her eyes. It’s eight-thirty in the morning with no pressing business other than breakfast, and yet there is a palpable guilt sticking to the insides of her ribs.

At Vishkar, she would have been awake at six o’clock. At Vishkar, she would have been showered, pressed, groomed, and in uniform by six forty-eight. At Vishkar, Wednesday’s weekly meeting would have concluded fifteen minutes ago and she would be on her way to board a plane with her fellow agents to execute another clandestine mission across the world in the name of order. At Vishkar, Junkrat never would have existed; she could have remained calm and content in her purpose, satisfied with her place in the world, and continued her work without worry.

At Vishkar, she would have been spurned and suspended for participating in this childish behavior.

“Well, that was certainly something.” Mei releases a long sigh, tugging at her nightgown once more. “He wasn’t like this at all yesterday. How do you deal with him?”

“I try not to.” Mercy’s words crush from her inner contours and spindle into the soft lilt of a knowing accent: _And yet you seem to be with him quite often_. Satya plies it apart with an even breath and winds it down where it won’t whisper. “You seemed to be having fun, though.”

“A bit, I guess. Believe it or not, there aren’t many scientists with a good sense of humor at the Eco watchpoints. Things get a little stale after a while.” With mint paste clinging to the lifelines of her hands, she pads over to the sink she had been using before Junkrat had played his prank. Carefully, she twists the tap on between her wrists and runs her fingers under the stream of water. “Where on earth did he come from, anyway? I know I haven’t been around for a while, but there are quite a few people here I don’t recognize. Winston must have been very busy. Or very desperate.”

“Perhaps both.” Satya allows herself a chuckle. “He did tell me that he didn’t know how many would respond to the recall after he initiated it, so he decided to recruit some additional help. He sought out others for their talents. I was one of them, and, apparently, so was Junkrat.”

“You’re not serious, are you?” Mei gives her a bewildered stare as she rinses off the last of the toothpaste. “Winston actually recruited him? I find that… difficult to believe. Overwatch was a melting pot of people—well, from what I remember—but even with so many different backgrounds, I don’t think someone like him would have been invited.”

“I do not understand it, either. I was not pleased when the two of them arrived. He wrecked my space in the workshop and never apologized. He is filthy and crude, and his humor is… odd. But he is proficient in his craft. I’ve never seen a person quite so passionate.”

“He destroyed my ice wall,” says Mei. She switches off the faucet and nabs a towel from one of the nearby bins to dry her hands. “My endothermic blaster can make them. It’s engineered to use the correct ratio of liquid and the exact temperature to create barriers that will withstand a great amount of damage. I’ve never seen one brought down so fast before. What exactly did he do?”

“I advised against it,” says Satya, “but he used a set of explosives. I’ve learned he tends not to listen when they are involved. Again: he is quite passionate.”

“He used explosives? On an aircraft? On a _moving_ aircraft?” Mei wrings her hands among the towel as she squints at Satya, her mouth pressed at the sides. “Well, that might have explained the state of the door. We are very lucky. That could have turned out… well, I don’t want to think about what could have happened.”

“I believe what already happened was exciting enough,” says Satya.

“Oh, and that reminds me—I never got the chance to thank you!” Mei drapes the towel over her shoulder and performs a slight bow with an incline of her head. “I was going to thank you last night, but you never came to dinner. So, uh, thanks. I’m very grateful for all you did. I believe things might have had a far different outcome if you hadn’t created that teleporter for us. Most likely what happened to the two of you after you pushed me and Zenyatta in. I do feel awful about that.”

“There is no need to thank me. Getting you to safety was the primary objective. I would do it again without question.” Satya attempts what she thinks may be a comforting smile, although the brimming sensation of flight wells up under her skin. “And as Mercy said, everyone was safe in the end. I cannot say the drop was a pleasant experience, but it’s something I’d rather not repeat.”

“Oh, I don’t blame you. At the time, it seemed like you’d sacrificed yourself, and it was… well, it was very noble of you.” Mei makes her way to the sink again, and after pawing around the lip by the faucet, she retrieves her toothbrush between her thumb and forefinger. “You know, you should have seen Doctor Ziegler. And everyone else. I’m sure she told you they were worried, but I think it was more than that. Doctor Ziegler was very upset. Reinhardt yelled an awful lot about planning for a counterattack. The giant man in the back went up to Winston and… well, I don’t know what happened there. I think he might have said something, but whatever it was, I couldn’t hear it. Winston seemed very unsettled. He ran over to Lena right afterward.”

Roadhog, Satya thinks. While she’s sure the encounter was no doubt intimidating for Winston—she wouldn’t want to be under the daunting gaze of that mask—she can’t help but crack a smile at the image of him being pulled aside and threatened by Junkrat’s colossal bodyguard. Somehow, it sends a tendril of warmth between her lungs.

“I do not think I expected such an intense reaction,” she says, regarding the disheveled woman in the mirror. Warm eyes gaze back at her against the glass, touched with a strange emotion she can’t quite pin. “Is that how everyone is here?”

Mei’s grin softens beside her. “Yes. Everyone really is wonderful. We are like a family. It’s been a very long time since I left for the Antarctic, but it’s as if nothing has changed. Reinhardt, Lena, Winston, Doctor Ziegler, Torbjörn—it’s like the past several years never happened. It’s good to be here again.”

It’s such a strange concept, she thinks, for a team to possess such close, familial bonds. While Vishkar certainly superimposed itself over that void in her life, it never quite made up for the fact that she no longer had a family of any kind. Fellow students, who soon turned into fellow colleagues, played various roles of a professional nature; there were no supportive mothers, encouraging fathers, or caring siblings. During her time at the academy, everyone had their own interests at heart, and in the very heart of Vishkar Corporation itself, the only concern was striving toward and establishing world order through its technology and redevelopment.

Satya has not had a family in many, many years.

“Mei,” she says.

“Yes?”

“I am glad you answered Winston’s recall.” She extends her right hand with what she thinks is an encouraging countenance. “I look forward to working with you.”

“I look forward to working with you as well.” Mei smiles, the soft brown of her eyes a brilliant umber under the lights above the mirrors. She accepts the gesture, her palm cool and damp from the water, and holds tight. “I’m very glad you’ve joined our cause.”

At Vishkar, there would have been no jokes, pranks, or puns. At Vishkar, she would have been waiting to take off to another side of the world, the company’s expenses at her disposal. At Vishkar, she would have been settled into the comfortable routines she’s always known, the hard-light halls of perfection and order enclosing her within.

A foreign tightness climbs next to her heart and tears its way in.

Satya is glad she joined, too.


	30. Chapter 30

Satya sketches the finishing details on a new schematic when Junkrat slinks into the workshop.

The soft huff of the door purrs somewhere at the back of her chair, and then the familiar _scuff-clink_ of his footsteps resounds off of the sturdy metal walls. She keeps her attention fixed to the sheaf of papers splayed out before her over the tabletop, a white pencil pressed between her right thumb and forefinger. Precision guiding her hand, she traces thin lines among the squared grids, sweeping overtop the established designs that have already been structured beneath. They curve, twist, and intersect among the patterns she conjures in her mind, and with every few strokes, she flips the deep blue page upward with the pad of her thumb to ensure what she’s created matches the lower layers.

They do, she finds, and a warm satisfaction blooms within the hollow of her chest.

Meanwhile, Junkrat drags Torbjörn’s chair from across the room. Or rather, he curls his body up in its seat despite the disproportionate height, and proceeds to wheel himself over to where his inventory is strewn about. Satya stiffens and prepares herself for the clamor of a crash, but there is only the thud of his boot against the floor as he skids to a stop. The distinct sound of him pumping the chair upward shortly follows, a rickety sort of clack in the mechanics, and then he plants himself in and scoots up to his own end of the tables.

Pressing her teeth into the side of her mouth, she continues trailing the stark tip of the pencil across the smooth surface of the schematic. She brings her fingers down into the final stretch, connecting lingering lines together, and with a slow, firm pressure, she starts to sketch in the finer details beside swatches of her pristine handwriting. It’s a tedious process, but one she enjoys nonetheless. It allows her to hone in and focus on the little things, the minute nuances that she’s so accustomed to seeing; it lets her sink herself into the building blocks and the components of the world where she can feel at peace.

Satya smooths the metal of her left hand along the paper, glancing over the fruits of her concentration. It’s the prototype of a new teleporter base. It’s larger, heavier, and should allow for an even greater distance between waypoints should everything align the way she expects. There was never a need for such a thing when she worked under the watchful presence of Vishkar, but any mission provided by Vishkar was perfectly planned and executed with little room or need for deviance.

The design is something she’s quite proud of, if she’s honest, although she doesn’t know if it will work without additional tweaks or enhancements. Expanding the distance before a connection is severed is a difficult task, and while she has become more than proficient in her craft, there is always a ceiling she must shatter through. She always strives for perfection, always, but no matter how hard one tries, perfection cannot be achieved every time.

There are prototypes for a reason, she supposes.

“G’day.”

Satya yelps at the intrusion and flinches to the side, her heartbeat launching into her throat. To her right, Junkrat sits in Torbjörn’s chair, eyes wide and mouth open in a nonplussed _what_. As she brings a palm to her chest in hopes of pushing her heart back behind her ribs where it belongs, she watches him arch a thick eyebrow at her in what seems like amusement.

“Well, wasn’t expecting that big of a how-do-you-do,” he says. “Bit jumpy, ain’t you?”

Junkrat leans back in the chair, elbows perched upon the armrests. His patched shorts seem less dusty than usual, and, to her surprise, he seems to have bathed. His blond hair is feathered and mussed, swept about in a haphazard fashion. It seems to have a lingering dampness, as if he had just taken a towel to its mess. All of the soot has been scoured from his shoulders, his face, his collarbone; faded freckles stipple across his skin in its absence. The leather harness is still missing, she finds, and part of her delights to see that there are clear lines of lighter skin among what looks to be a faint tan line. She credits the Gibraltar sun.

“Y’know, you heard me come in,” he says, regarding her with a thin smile. “I know you did. Not like I just snuck up behind you or anything. Made proper noise.”

“It doesn’t matter. Don’t _do_ that.” Satya draws a shaky inhale and fixates her stare at the schematic on the tabletop. “There was no reason for you to come over here.”

“What, I can’t say hello?”

“I have no problem with saying hello,” she says, “but I would prefer if you didn’t startle me in the process.”

“Right, then. Well, now that you’re all good and startled—” He leans forward and wiggles his good fingers at her in an exaggerated wave, “—g’day.”

Exasperated, Satya places the pencil atop her sketches and rubs at her eyes. Now that she’s no longer so focused on the project at hand, she can feel the strain pulling between her temples. How long has it been since she’s had a break? One hour? Two? More? She can’t remember. It must have been two at the very least. A clock would be a good investment for this room, she thinks, although she has a deep seated feeling it wouldn’t make much difference in the amount of time spent here.

With a light shove, Satya wheels her way backward and rises from her chair. She winds herself into a stretch, arching her back in a tight shiver, and she breathes a soft sigh as her muscles unspool. When she brings her left hand to smooth out the pale fabric of her blouse, she realizes that Junkrat has moved. He leans his right elbow upon the table, seeming intrigued by what she’s drawn, and yet he’s—staring? At her?

Before she can question it, the amber of his eyes darts away and lands upon the table.

“So, what’s all this,” says Junkrat, peering over the blue and white patterned sheaf. He runs a thumb down the edge of the topmost paper, right where it starts to curl, and he pours his posture into the gesture. His whole body seems to curve toward it, investing interest into her work, and decidedly away from where she stands. “Something you been working on? Seems a bit thin, don’t it? Sort of—oh, never mind. There’s more.” He pulls the pages upward and flits through the layers. “Looks… weird. Being honest.”

“It is one of my projects,” she replies, and swats his curious hand away with the backs of her fingers. “A teleporter.”

“Don’t you already got one of those?” His brow knits together as he inspects the top page. “Well, I mean, you make ‘em, right? That’s how you popped us out ‘fore we hit the water. Why you drawing up some other one?”

“The one I created before was an inferior model.” She takes the pencil in her right hand and corrects a line she’d missed. “The distance between the entrance and the exit is only a certain amount, and when we fell out of that ship, we nearly reached the limit. If things hadn’t happened the way they did, the teleporter would have been useless. So, to ensure that no longer poses a threat to us or our team, I’ve designed a new prototype that will allow for greater distances.”

Junkrat gazes at the schematic in a quiet sort of awe. He tips forward in his seat, craning his neck to get a better view since she deterred him from touching. “How long you spent on this thing?”

“Most of today. I woke far too early this morning.” Satya tucks the pencil between her index and middle finger as she flips through the sheaf of papers. “It’s to compensate for sleeping in so late yesterday.”

“Sometime past eight is late for you? Hell, I’d hate to see what early is.”

“Your usual bedtime is an early morning,” she says. She glances at him between the pages, and she notes the endearing nature of his inquisitive stare. “So, about four or five o’clock?”

“Right, look, that ain’t my fault,” he says. “Not like I mean for it to happen or anything like that. ‘Oh, right, yeah, just gonna stay up ‘til the bloody crack of dawn just for the hell of it when your mates are off dead to the world.’ Yeah, nah. Don’t think so.” Junkrat drums his prosthetic fingers along the table, his teeth sinking into the flesh of his lower lip. “Just sorta… happens. Y’know? Old habits. Can’t shake ‘em. Been too long. ‘Sides, making stock’s fun. Time sorta slips by ‘thout realizing, don’t it? I mean, you been here how long today?”

“I have an estimate, but I do not have an exact time.” Satya runs her fingers down the metal of her arm, the pencil tucked against her lifelines. “I suppose I see your point.”

He grins, wide and contagious and insufferably charming. “Knew you would.”

“Stop that.” She reaches out, touches the armrest of Torbjörn’s chair, and promptly pushes him away.

“Stop? Stop what?” He halts the chair with his peg against the floor, and with a knock of his knee, he rolls himself back to her again. “What’d I do?”

“Being… smug.” Satya waves her hand in a flippant gesture as if to shoo him. “You do it constantly. You are always so satisfied with yourself.”

“That right? Don’t really notice nothing like that.” He wipes at the side of his mouth with a thumb. “Still, I got good reason. Nobody blows things up like yours truly. Guaranteed, you can search the whole bloody world and you’ll never find another bloke like me.”

“Oh, I am quite sure of that. You are certainly one of a kind.” Satya finds it difficult to prevent a smile. “I believe that’s one thing we can agree on.”

“Just one?” Junkrat appraises her from his seat. The overhead lights illuminate soft freckles on the expanses of his shoulders and lend a cool sleekness to the blond of his hair. His furrows just so, his lips pressed together, jaw firm. “Coulda sworn there was a couple more in there somewhere.”

“Well, if you count our team building exercise, then perhaps that’s two.” She tries her best to ignore him and return to the schematic upon the table, but his presence on the outskirts of her vision serves as too great of a distraction for her to truly focus.

“Right, right, yeah. Thought so. Missed that. Good onya for the lead, by the way. I’ll be catching up, though. Reckon with the rate we been getting points, five’ll happen real soon. Well, depends on wherever the ape sends us, I guess. He ever decide what’s happening? We didn’t have no spiffy meeting or nothing after we grabbed Snowball. Seeming awful quiet for all the racket was made.”

Satya bites at the inside of her mouth, tracing a finger down one crooked line in her schematic. Taking the pencil in hand, she corrects it with a bolder stroke. She must be far wearier than she’d thought to make such a mistake. She can’t blame Junkrat for this, either; this was far before he’d made his way into the workshop.

“I am not sure, to be honest,” she says. “I haven’t heard anything, either. I assume we’re to stay put until the others come up with a plan.”

“Y’know, them bastards got a leader or something. We’re just chasing the little ones, going about all them places out in the sticks. What’re we after, anyway?”

“I did not think that mattered to you.” Satya’s brow knits as she peers over at him. He has an ankle across the metal of his knee, chin cradled in the palm of his prosthetic, and the etched lines of his hips show far too well with how low his shorts have sunk. “You just seemed eager to work.”

“Well, yeah. Job’s a job. Cash is cash. Even better: going legit’s an even bigger job with even bigger cash. I mean, group’s defunct and illegal and all, but still, oi, better than the average bomb run. Not that those ain’t fun or anything.” He runs his good hand through his hair, pensive and slow, his fingers kneading along his scalp. “Dunno. Just got a feeling, right? Snowball’s ship got me thinking. Black geared lot’s got me thinking. Something dodgy’s going on.”

“Winston knows the details, and so do the older members. I have not been privy to most of the discussion, but if I recall correctly, we aren’t after anything at all. It’s the enemy who is after something, and Winston wants to prevent it.” Satya draws her gaze to the ceiling in thought. She squints under the metal architecture, gleaming with the workshop's vibrant lights. “I do not know what it might be, however. I assume it is something from Overwatch’s past, but that might be wrong.”

“Treasure, maybe?” Junkrat’s voice takes upon a warm, lilting timbre, and he rubs his hands together as his tongue runs across his teeth. “Oh, I like that. We _have_ been going out and about in the sticks, after all. Who’s to say they ain’t got some treasure on ‘em? Or something leading to some treasure? Now ain’t that something to think about.”

“Whatever it is, I do not think it will be what you’re expecting. I doubt you’ll be able to spend it. What good would an organization like that do with more money?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” he says. “Anything, really. Cash is cash, love. Gets you just ‘bout anything. If you’re willing to buy, you can bet somebody out there’s gonna be willing to sell. Maybe not at the price you like, right, might gouge you a bit, might a lot, but they’ll still sell.”

“I assume you know this from experience,” says Satya.

“‘Course. Back in the bush, whole thing was buying and selling. Lived it. You scavenge, you scrap, you sell. Maybe get you grub for a night. If you’re lucky, maybe two. Maybe something better if you got something real good.” He shrugs. “Either way, whatever them lot’s after, I reckon it’s worth heaps. Might be worth a bit of digging, wouldn’t you say?”

“Do you remember when I advised you to keep your nose out of others’ business?” Taking the pencil in the metal of her other hand, she presses her index finger right upon the tip of his nose. With such close proximity, his dappled freckles are soft, clear, and spread pleasantly beneath the burning amber of his eyes. “I believe that applies here, as well.”

Gingerly, he takes her knuckle between his thumb and forefinger. He pulls upward, applying a gentle pressure, and guides her away. “Pretty sure I said I’d stick my nose where I please.”

“That might be one of the poorer ideas you’ve had.” She clenches the rest of her hand around his in retaliation. Coupled with the odd angle and how small she is in comparison, she can’t quite gain enough purchase.

“Yeah?” The heat of his palm engulfs hers. His fingers spread over the sharpness of her knuckles and the tendons beneath her skin, kneading tendrils of creeping warmth through thin valleys and soft etchings. “Don’t know what you’re on about.”

“It might get you into trouble,” she says. Her voice wavers without her consent, and she finds her throat winding tight. “Some might not appreciate you intruding.”

“Some, huh. I ain’t worried.” The hot, vivid color of his eyes climbs through her and lances in beside the spaces of her lungs. The edge of his mouth shapes into something she can’t name; it’s sly, knowing, searing, and she can’t look away.

“I think you should be,” she says.

Junkrat’s grip tightens. His hand still blushes with the purpled black of a recovering bruise. Cleansed of dirt and grime, his fingers coil around her, clean cuticles and rough skin and singed nails. He lifts himself from the chair, hard muscle sculpting down the plane of his abdomen, and he draws himself into his full height.

“Nah. No need. I don’t mind a bit of trouble. S’what I got bombs for. Placed just right, light a fuse, pull a pin, maybe a lovely detonator—” He presses his thumb against the inside of her palm, mimicking the gesture, “—and _kaboom_. All the trouble’s up sky high.”

“That can’t be your solution to everything.” Something inside her tells her to move, to draw back, to step away, and yet her calves remain transmuted stone and the soles of her feet stay planted upon the workshop floor. Nothing responds the way she needs, the way she _wants_ ; her body does not listen to logic and reason and instead stands shivering, still, her hand clasped too tightly in his.

“Sure it can,” he says. “S’how it’s always been. At first you don’t succeed, blow it up again. Works every time. Most of the time.”

She sinks her teeth into the inside of her mouth. “There will come a time when it won’t. Some things require nuance and intrigue. Some things require delicacy. Diplomacy.”

“Got no use for that, love.” He gazes down at her with something she can’t understand. It’s a compiled amalgam of tempered delight, subtle vigor, but it’s not so transparent. “I’m a simple bloke. I ain’t no suit. I build my stock, I blow things up, and I get the job done. S’all that matters.”

“There is a great deal more that matters,” she says. “Perhaps if you weren’t so narrow-minded, you might be able to see that.”

Junkrat cocks his head. “You’re worried ‘bout me.”

It’s not a question.

It’s something sharp, dangerous, unwanted, slipping in between her ribs, and Satya can’t reply.

Beneath her tongue is parched, desiccated, her teeth close and clenched, and her lips seem to have sewn themselves together with strewn syllables and dried saliva. She works down a swallow, but it does nothing to force the knot that is lodged in her windpipe. Wrenching her hand away, she takes a step to the side and splays her fingers across the sheets of her schematic. It’s cool, comforting, familiar, the depressions of her sketching beneath the pads of her fingertips. It’s not him, it’s not his hand; the feeling of him is too strange, too intense, and she can’t cope.

“If you act so foolishly, not only will you harm others, you will harm us all. Remember, there is more than the two of you. We are eleven now, and it is unknown how many more will answer Winston’s recall.” She gathers herself, diaphragm full and tight, and she draws up before him again. With a centered focus, she shoves two fingers below his ribs and stares him in the eye. “There are countless scenarios. Tell me, if you manage to injure or kill your employer in a crossfire, what will you do then? What if another one of us is involved?”

Junkrat’s entire posture has changed beneath her touch. He stands straight, rigid, shoulders back and spine aligned. The muscles in his neck tense as he swallows, and the frame of his chest shudders in an inhale. Perhaps it’s the harshness of the light, but she swears color rises up among the freckles in his cheeks.

“We fell,” she says. Satya allows her hand to curl into a fist as she brings it back down to her side. “We fell a long way, Junkrat. Explosions can’t save you from something like that.”

“Yeah. I know. Don’t gotta remind me. I’d love to forget that bloody drop.” Slowly, he lowers himself down into Torbjörn’s chair. He props an elbow on an armrest and threads his good hand through his hair. His teeth roll the skin of his lower lip, his jaws working back and forth, and he drops his gaze to fixate on a particularly interesting spot by her feet. “Thought we was as good as dead there. Really did. Was all ready for it. Well, as ready as you can get for something like that.”

She is well aware, although she keeps the words tucked back behind her teeth. The plane of his body curled around her as they plummeted presses so incredibly close, and her hands clench out of reflex. Her heart is endless hammering.

“Don’t think I ever thanked you proper,” he says. His fingers drum in absent rhythms she can’t hear, his eyes narrowed on the floor below.

“There is no need,” she replies. “We are teammates. And on the ship, you said we were friends. Did you not?”

“I…” A canine gnaws right by a glinting molar. “I might’ve, yeah.”

“And that is something a friend should do. Isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he agrees. His ears flush so faintly. “Yeah, suppose so.”

“Then what is the problem?”

“Not a thing.” A smirk curves at the edge of Junkrat’s mouth. “Just—y’know, I reckon you would’ve made a fuss over being mates. All prim and proper with the likes of me. Me and my _character_ , yeah? Chugging grog in the morning like some bogan. Made it clear you was none too happy ‘bout our little arrangement here at the start.”

“I wasn’t. I am still not pleased I have to share a workspace with you, and I am still not convinced this exercise is not a game you created for your benefit. I don’t like your filth or your messes, and I don’t like your habits.” She draws a deep breath to help still her thumping pulse. “However, acceptance is… a better path than most.”

“Oi.” Junkrat lifts himself from the chair in a quick snap. With set jaws and a steeled countenance and pooling amber, he rolls his shoulders and stares down at her in a cool, fixed focus. “Right, first of all: I ain’t a mess, and I ain’t filthy. Least not now. All right? You got eyes. Look. See?” He raises his hands and gestures to himself in a light sweep. “All nice and clean. Well, mostly.”

“I’ve noticed,” she says, although she wishes she hadn’t.

“Good. Right, okay, and second—”

Before she can react, Junkrat swoops down and immerses her in a tight hug. His arms carve warm paths across her back as he crushes her against his chest. Her cheek is flush with his sternum, an emanating and addictive heat soaking through to the pores of her skin, and the pressure is almost overwhelming. The mellow scent of him pulls through, something smooth, soft, brisk. It’s not quite the usual musk that clings down to the acrid reagents and bitter components of his work, and it’s not the smell that seems so intent on saturating his every inch when he’s cloaked in soot.

“Thanks for saving my bullheaded arse,” he says.

The liquid midnight of Ilios bursts behind her eyes. Shock climbs through her nerves and splays her fingers apart. The white pencil clatters to the floor below. She can’t move, she can’t react; her body is taut and rigid and there is nothing but him suffocating the world around her. Any other time he’s touched her, it’s been in the field of combat, and she could handle that, she _could_ —but here, here where she’s supposed to be alone, enclosed, safe, he’s wrapped himself around her and she can’t handle it.

“Can’t go about saying I’m ungrateful or anything,” he says by the shell of her ear. His thick accent traipses a tremble down her vertebrae. “Don’t got much on me other than more of them little shells, but something tells me you don’t like them much.”

“You’re—” Her voice begins to clamber its way out of her throat, meek and hoarse and swollen. “You’re insufferable,” she manages.

“You, too, huh? Oh, you and Roadie’ll get along great.”

Breathing is too difficult. “What?”

“He says you’ve been avoiding him.” Junkrat draws back at last, and he settles his palms upon the edges of her shoulders, framing her before him between his hands. “Don’t blame you, honestly. He can be right nasty. Still, he’s my best mate, and since you’re joining our little circle of cobbers, you ain’t getting by ‘thout a proper introduction.”

Satya struggles to recover. Her breathing is jagged and shallow, and she somehow can’t force her lungs to fill. With her heartbeat striking at the undersides of her ribs, she settles for a punctuated swat against his belly. “I—I don’t _want_ a proper introduction. I didn’t even want… well, that. Just… just a ‘thank you’ would have been more than sufficient.”

“Yeah? All right, then.” Junkrat leans down, stooping far too close for comfort, his face inches from hers. “Thank you,” he says in humming lilt.

“I meant in place of physical contact. _Stop it_.” She pushes him away by the collarbone. He’s being smug again, and she absolutely can’t stand it.

“Ah, c’mon. Was just having a bit of fun. S’not so bad. See, I even made it better for you by washing my mug. Coulda got that black stuff all over you instead.”

Satya shudders to think of it. After rescuing Mei, she’d had to request one of Mercy’s stain removers to clean the uniform she’d worn, as Junkrat’s soot had soaked the stark white into a faded grey. Shutting her eyes, she kneads at her temples in exasperation. Zenyatta’s wisdom and acceptance be damned; this was _hard._

“I think I need a break,” she breathes.

“Yeah? Ah, might be best. Probably. Said you’d been at your scribbling for hours, right?” Completely unfazed, Junkrat sits back down in Torbjörn’s chair with a light grunt. Using his peg as a launching point, he wheels himself over to his side of the workshop in a single push. “Oi, raid the fridge for me ‘fore you get back, will you? Get me something nice. Craving one of them tasty biscuits from yesterday.”

Satya pushes his presence to the back of her mind and makes for the workshop door. The short, staccato rhythm of her shoes rises above the clinking metal racket from Junkrat as he wades about his various piles of inventory. A knot still holds its ground in the confines of her throat, the last man standing, and the damp perspiration lining her palm belies the stoic expression she clutches with desperate fierceness.

It makes her tremble to think he invaded her personal space in such a way. It was too sudden, too abrupt, and there was no way she could have prepared herself for something so jarring. He could have said something; he could have warned her; he could have simply said his thanks and things would have been fine.

Satya passes the threshold, and she clutches at her gauntlet.

She doesn’t understand him. She doesn’t. She doesn’t understand him and she doesn’t understand the situation and she doesn’t understand her reaction. Her heart is afire, her lungs burn, and shivers web blistering heat through her nerves.

She can’t admit it. She won’t. She doesn’t _need_ this.

The outpost halls bleed into an incoherent blur. Satya’s grip on the white metal grows too tight and she sucks in a shuddering breath to satiate the painful clamor for air.

Junkrat’s hug was… _nice_.             


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _[If my velocity starts to make you sweat,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UvfNmXbVHi4) _   
>  _then just don't_   
>  _let go_

The stoneworked streets beyond the outpost bake beneath the intensity of the hot Gibraltar sun.

Satya wanders the edges of one of the bustling squares, eyeing the various shops and restaurants that line the area. To her discomfort, the crowds are dense and rather raucous, and so she keeps herself to the open spaces to allow herself room to breathe. In hindsight, she thinks, one o’clock had been a poor time to leave the compound; there are those who linger for late lunches among the old brick and cracked mortar, and the number of people perusing the sun dappled storefronts is far higher than she’d like. Despite her gnawing unease, Satya braves through clustered bodies and sifts through the murmuring throng in hopes of finding the materials she’s been in need of for so long.

Sweat beads down her temples and across her brow. The sweltering heat has forced her to draw her hair back into a tightly wound bun, staving off the heat that encroaches at the back of her neck. Her Vishkar uniform remains back at the outpost, as she had assumed it would summon unwanted attention, and so she wears a plain pair of slacks and a pale short-sleeved blouse to accommodate the weighty metal of her hard-light gauntlet. She supposes she doesn’t look too different from the average tourist, but the anxiety of being out of place runs in soft electric currents beneath the surface of her skin.

As she flits from shop to shop, she focuses on the fluid sounds of other languages. With a trained ear, she can discern flavors of Spanish, Arabic, Portuguese, and smatterings of Hindi among the amalgam of locals and tourists. Others crop up in passing conversations, as well, although she does not know them by small swatches of phonetic clues alone. Vishkar’s academy had provided quite the extensive program on language, and although she is proficient in several languages due to their insistence, the honed edges of each tongue have dulled and rusted considerably with disuse.

When she finds the face of a promising textile and craft shop—the painted name of ‘ _Lakhani Silk & Fabrics’_ arcs the entrance—she pushes the glass door aside and ducks in. There are shelves of varying types and textures of fabric that hang among scattered supplies, but after scanning the available inventory, she discovers that none are quite of the make she’s looking for. With a short breath, she makes her way to the front of the shop, the soles of her shoes scuffing across the smoothness of the flooring, and she grabs the clerk’s attention.

“Excuse me,” she says, forming her tongue around Spanish syllables, “do you carry this fabric?” She pulls out a folded bundle of the shimmering black from her ruined legging and places it upon the countertop. Its texture is a unique sort of mesh, elastic and durable, and while Satya finds it quite unlikely there will be an exact match, she hopes for the best.

The clerk adjusts her thin framed glasses and leans down to get a better look. She appears to be middle aged, worry lines etched at the sides of her face and across her forehead, with dark brown skin and peppered hair roped into a long braid. The sleeves of her kameez are an elegant crimson, and soft golden intricacies stitch down her arms.

“Mm, no, I don’t think so,” she replies, appraising it beneath the pads of careful fingers. “This does not look familiar. How interesting.” Her accent is thick and melodic, crisp at the end of each word, and Satya strains to listen. “No, I do not carry anything like this. I don’t know where you found such a thing, but we do not have it here.”

Satya’s brow pinches in disappointment. “I see.”

The woman purses her lips as she peers down at the fabric in question. She unfolds it one layer at a time, and the sanguine soaked place where the bullet had pierced through comes to light. “Ah. But I might know of another place that may have this in stock. Their selection is… different. Specialty items. Kevlar and such. Resistant.” She regards Satya with burnt umber eyes, a knowing twinge curving the wrinkles just beneath. “You understand, no?”

It’s difficult to rework her brain into recognizing the new set of speech patterns and sentence structures, but it begins to pick up the more she scrambles for words to place. “Yes, I do,” she replies, although she’s not sure how an older woman in a textile shop in Gibraltar has any such set of connections.

“I can place an order,” says the clerk. “It may take some time, but I believe I can acquire it.

“If you could, I would appreciate it,” says Satya. “Might I ask when you would get it in?”

The woman eyes her with a faint smirk. “You speak English, yes?” She swaps languages with little effort; her accent is just as strong, but it does not do much to impede understanding. “You seem to struggle.”

Satya knots her fingers together and stares at the countertop. “I heard many speaking Spanish. I assumed.”

“Gibraltar is many cultures and many languages squeezed into a very small place,” says the clerk. “Sometimes I forget what tongue I speak in.” She pulls at the legging, rubbing it between her thumbs and forefingers. “I believe I can get you something close to this by next Friday. It will not be exact, but perhaps it might suit your needs. Of course, I will need a piece of this to reference.”

“Take what you need.” It pains her to see the woman reach for a pair of scissors and mar what used to be a part of her combat ensemble, but she swallows and keeps the discomfort down beneath her breastbone.

“I am Chana,” she says, cutting out a squared piece from the legging. “And what name might I use for this order?”

“Satya Vaswani.” She has been Symmetra for months. The vowels feel odd on the backs of her teeth.

“Very good.” Chana folds up what’s left of the legging and slides it back across the counter. She then grabs a pencil from a nearby cupful and scribbles Satya’s name upon a faded notepad. “Come back by next Friday. I should have something for you then. We might look into getting the correct gold for the ends as well.”

“I appreciate this greatly,” she says.

“It is no problem,” says Chana, crinkling her nose and dismissing her with a flippant wave. “I get many requests for unique things. Not so much now, but many years ago, I had several on my steps asking for fabrics. Unique things are not unheard of. I don’t mind them.”

“Many years ago?” Satya is not familiar with the history of the area, but she imagines the Gibraltar outpost has been present for at least a decade. Overwatch in itself had been an outstanding presence until its abrupt disbandment, and she assumes the watchpoint here was no different. It wouldn’t be outrageous to think its residents would have descended into the city for various things. “If you don’t mind,” she says, “may I ask when this was?”

“Ah, it isn’t important. Such things happened long ago. The past is the past, Miss Vaswani.” Chana winks, lips pulling into a weathered smile. “Perhaps it’s best we leave it that way.”

After the proper arrangements have been made, Satya leaves the shop and drifts out into the slate stone streets. The drone of the crowd wells up around her, but she laces her fingers together, kneading at the comforting metal of her left hand, and she pushes forward. The trip back to the outpost will be a lengthy walk, she knows, but she supposes it’s a small price in the scope of things for the rejuvenation of her damaged uniform.

As she combs through the streets, she makes the choice of taking less populated paths. Some of them lead past several storied apartments, and others lead to areas that seem less than savory. They aren’t slums by any stretch, but a shard of her mind equates them to the shabby and degenerate world she once knew back in Hyderabad. Her mind plies them all apart and imagines staggering hard-light structures in their stead, all pressed under the grand ‘V’ of Vishkar’s enterprise. She could build something far better to benefit the people here, she knows, but she has doubts that the Overwatch: Recall team would want any sort of Vishkar development so close to a watchpoint.

Satya turns a corner down a particularly deserted route. Dilapidated buildings with sunbleached brick and worn mortar adorn both sides of the narrow street. With no shops, eateries, or store fronts to lure in crowds, she seems to be one of the two souls that had chosen to take this path. A good distance ahead, a gangly looking man is tucked beneath one of the rundown automobiles parked toward the road’s edge. Tools, parts, and what looks like a sizeable backpack litter the ground around where his legs jut out from the car, and the closer Satya gets, the more she thinks she can see—a peg leg?

“ _Junkrat?_ ” Her voice is too terse, too loud, echoing off blanched faces of baking brick, but she can’t temper it back.

The man beneath the jalopy tenses at the sound. When he rolls out onto the hot stone of the street from under the car’s belly, there is no mistaking the wild nest of blond hair or the bright orange metal of his prosthetics or the grubby patchwork of his shorts. A wrench in one hand and another tucked in by his belt, he offers a jovial wave with waggling fingers.

“G’day,” he calls.

Satya closes the distance with hasty strides, too stunned to fully process the situation. She doesn’t understand why he’s here or why he was supine beneath a car; the last she’d seen of him was yesterday after she’d left the workshop. While he still appears relatively clean—a miracle, she decides—a fair amount of dirt and a thin film of what might be grease coats at his fingers.

“What on _earth_ are you doing?” she asks.

“Scavenging,” he says, and lifts his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. “Where else you think I been getting parts? Been needing an engine or two for a couple extra RIP-tires I got in mind, so I had myself a bit of a walk. Suppose I could probably throw ‘em, right, but I don’t think they’d get too far.”

Satya wrinkles her nose at the name. “Rip… tires?”

“Yeah. Y’know, R-I-P. RIP-tires.” Junkrat grins, broad and mischievous and manic. “Stands for ‘rest in pieces.’”

Satya presses a hand to her forehead. She should have expected this, and she doesn’t know why she didn’t. Of course he’d decided to wander the city when she’s out and about, and of course he’d be destroying someone’s property in the process. This is who he is. He’s a breathing mass of chaos.

“You can’t just steal from people,” she says. Drawing her lips together in a firm frown, she glares down at him with as much disapproval as she can muster. “This is someone’s vehicle. Another person owns it. What you’re doing is highly illegal. What if someone _sees_ you?”

“What, this old thing?” Unconcerned, Junkrat punches its dented side with a prosthetic fist. A ringing clank resounds against the flanking buildings. “Ain’t no one been near this hunk of scrap in weeks. Too bloody damaged. Trust me, I ain’t knicking no one’s shit. This thing’s near useless. Reckon I best take the good stuff ‘fore someone hauls it off, yeah?”

“That is still someone’s property, no matter how unsightly it is,” she insists. “You do not have free rein to take from others.”

“Aw, c’mon, don’t be like that. Nobody’s using it. Promise you. Found the clunker weeks ago when Roadie and I had us a good look around. Hasn’t moved since I first saw it.” He gestures down to the street around where he’d been shimmied beneath the car’s undercarriage. “Right, look, even the oil spots’re all together.”

Satya follows the path of his hand, and she finds that he isn’t wrong: the blots of translucent black rainbows pool in the same general area, bleeding out over the slate stonework. If the vehicle had been moved at any point from its current space, there would have been varying stains.

“S’in rough shape as it is, all banged up and all.” Junkrat runs his prosthetic along the rust and corrosion climbing across the car’s grey paint. “Some parts’s good, but the battery’s all fucked with acid and pretty sure there’s something wrong with the transmission. Lot of clacking. Still, whatever I can grab’s worth it. Gutting it’s a damn service, honestly. No point in letting good parts go to waste.”

“All right.” Satya pulls in a deep breath, hot and humid air flowing down into the bottoms of her lungs. She doesn’t like it, not in the least, but there’s not much she can do to stop him. He is his own person, despite his affiliation with Overwatch, and it isn’t her job to keep him in line. “Just… keep out of sight, please. I doubt Winston will want to hear how you’ve been arrested by the local authorities for theft.”

“Nah, no worries, love.” Junkrat twirls the wrench between his fingers and flashes her a wide grin. “I yanked parts straight outta one of them bot building plants and kept meself scarce when I had half a bloody country after me. Ain’t real worried ‘bout a couple small town coppers.”

There isn’t much he _is_ worried about, she thinks, but she bites at her tongue and suppresses the remark. As Junkrat starts to lower himself back beneath the car, Satya’s attention is brought to the end of the street behind her. It starts as a faint padding rhythm, but the distinct sound of marching footsteps soon resounds among warm brick and sweltering stone. Neither locals nor tourists would hold such a stark and uniform sound, and something deep and twisting beside her stomach tells her to leave.

Satya stoops down and pulls at Junkrat’s ankle, her fingers clasped about the gauze wound about his leg. “Someone is coming.”

“What?” He squints up at her from the jalopy’s undercarriage. “What you on about?”

“Something’s coming,” she repeats, and ropes her strength into her arms to drag him further out. “We need to move. Now.”

“Oi, all right, all right, I’m moving, I’m moving, sheesh. Don’t gotta throw a fit over it.” Crawling forward by the heels of his palms to keep his back off the stone, he rolls himself forward and clambers to his feet.

With adrenaline pooling through her blood, she doesn’t give him any time to recover. She clamps her hand about his wrist and wrenches him forward with her down the narrow path of a nearby side alley. He stumbles behind her, boot and peg striking sunsoaked stones, and nearly knocks into her when she spins into a halt. Pressing her back against the warm brickwork of the building, Satya sinks to her knees and hopes they’re just far enough to be out of sight.

“Right, so what’s all the fuss about? What’s going on? What’d you make me stop for?” Junkrat peers out from beside her, craning his neck to see out to the end of the alley. “Y’know, I almost got that thing just about finished, so s’not gonna be—”

“Shh.” Satya keeps her eyes on the road and strikes the air with her hand as if to silence him. The marching grows louder still, and the thrum of her pulse murmurs in her ears.

“Oi, wait a minute,” says Junkrat, “you don’t gotta ‘bout lecturing me on scavenging and then just up and tell me to—”

“What do you not understand about _shh_ ,” she hisses, and clamps her palm over his mouth.

A group of several black-clad operatives pass the gutted jalopy, various firearms slung over their backs and holstered at their sides. Each wears a thick bodysuit and a weighty coat, and each has their face obscured by a mask of some kind. Their footsteps are brisk and heavy, plodding against the uneven surface of the street, and Satya swears she feels her heart climbing up the column of her throat as they draw close.

Thankfully, Junkrat seems to understand the necessity for silence. He remains crouched beside her, soundless and still, his breath caressing down the back of her hand. His jaw works beneath her touch, and she doesn’t know if it’s from impatience or his usual need for some sort of ongoing tic, but it serves as a greater distraction than she’d like.

After the group passes and she is sure there is a sizeable distance, she lowers her hand from his mouth. “They’re here.”

“Fucking hell. They follow us or something?” Junkrat curls forward, rubbing a prosthetic knuckle across his lip. “This ain’t good. We gotta get back. Fast.”

“How do you propose we do that?” Satya leans out from the cover of the alley. The operatives are no longer in sight, to her relief, but she has a feeling they are not the only ones in the immediate vicinity. “If they’re here, they surely know where the watchpoint is. They must know where the others are.”

“Maybe they’re casing the joint. Maybe we got ‘em early.” Junkrat bites at the skin of his forefinger, his eyes glinting amber fire under the afternoon sunlight. “Or maybe they’re looking for something.”

“I don’t know. We don’t exactly have time for speculation. We need to find a way back without being spotted.”

Junkrat palms the side of the building and lifts himself to his feet. “Right. Let’s get going, then. I got us a way. Just give me a tick.”

He lopes past her to where his tools have been scattered about the street. With swift and fluid movements, he starts to collect them one by one, shoving them into the various pouches hooked to his belt. It takes a minute or so, but when he’s satisfied that everything has been retrieved, he bends down and scoops up the large pack by the car’s rear tire that has stuffed full of various parts. He hoists it over across his shoulder with a grunt in the thick of his throat. As he makes his way over to where she waits, the punctuated clink of metal on metal jostles from the pack with every step.

“What are you doing?” She gestures to the rucksack with the white metal of her hand. “Leave that here.”

“Oi, look, I don’t wanna have to come back out and get it again,” he says, tugging on its strap for emphasis. “You know how hard it is finding good parts ‘round here? I mean, the rock’s got some defunct stuff, sure, but all that ain’t nothing like I’m used to.”

“Junkrat,” she says, “leave it. You’re going to give our position away to the entire world with how much noise it makes. Do you really want us to be spotted?”

With his jaw set and his mouth firmed into a frown, he slides off the pack, pulls it open, and spills most of its contents onto the ground in a dissonant cacophony of shrill clanks and piercing clangs. With the side of his boot, he then slides the pile of collected parts beneath the body of the car, making sure the small tidbits aren’t forgotten.

“There.” Junkrat slings the rucksack over his shoulder once more. “Happy now?”

“Yes,” she replies, although she finds it ridiculous she should have to convince him not to carry what she’s sure equates to half his weight in clattering scrap.

“I swear,” he says, entertaining a scowl, “if all that’s gone by the time I get back, you owe me half an engine.”

Junkrat takes her through paths she never would have attempted on her own. He slinks along through crowded streets without a thought, weaving in and out between warm bodies with surprisingly fluid movements. The swell of noise and the close proximity of others’ scents, sweat, and body heat is almost enough to become overwhelming, but she uses him as a focus to block out the world. Teeth at the side of her mouth and her fingers tracing the metal and mesh of her left arm, she fixates on the rigid plane of his back and the beige material of the rucksack.

The blinding sun scorches down overhead, and with each passing block, the looming sense of unease hooks tighter around Satya’s throat. She has no weapon, nothing with which to defend herself; she has only what she can bring forth from light into being. Junkrat doesn’t seem to be armed, either, save perhaps whatever small explosives might be stuffed into the packs by his hips, but that doesn’t seem to deter him. As he carves a path for her through the streets, he glances about the area with a searching intensity. Every now and then, his body will halt and his muscles will tense, and he will wait in a prolonged pause. From the set form of his jaw and the burn of his eyes, he’s operating on high alert.

“Hold up.” Junkrat extends an arm to bar her from continuing. “I see ‘em. More of ‘em. Look, over ‘cross the way there.”

The collecting crowd has given the group a wide berth. Locals and tourists alike keep closer to the storefronts, gazing at the assembly of black-clad operatives. Satya hadn’t imagined a terrorist organization known for discreet assassinations to command such an open and public presence; Tekhartha Mondatta’s murder in King’s Row was proof of such, and yet the great number of agents pathing through the street contradict one of their primary objectives: secrecy. There must be something more here, there _must_ , although she can’t imagine what.

Somehow, the Talon presence amplifies the surrounding noise. Satya finds her teeth clenched, her hands closed, her throat impossibly tight. She wants more than anything to duck into a nearby shop to escape the puncturing din, but the situation is too tense, too delicate, and she can’t let herself be consumed by something as ridiculous as the sounds of constant shouts and chatter. This is worlds away from her preferred element, and she hates it. If she must face an enemy, let it be in a place with no crowds, no distractions, no bystanders; let it be in empty buildings or deserted landscapes; let it be where she can command both reality and herself.

“There they go.” Junkrat gnaws at his lip as he watches the group split apart, operatives pairing off together in varying directions. Satya holds her breath; one set plods through the shifting throng right toward them. “Looks like we best be moving. Don’t want no lead for tea. C’mon.”

He leads her down curving back alleyways, urgency lacing his steps. From what she can see past the clustered rooftops, the Rock of Gibraltar is still a long way off, and by estimating the amount of ground they’ve covered so far through their forced routes, Satya has a feeling it will be far longer until they reach safety—if at all. The number of agents threading through the streets does little to assuage her fears of the outpost either being compromised or invaded. Why hadn’t Winston formed some sort of retaliation after Mei’s rescue? It might have crushed such numbers and put the organization on the defensive, and it might have prevented this impending disaster altogether.

“We can’t avoid them forever.” Perspiration drips down the back of her neck as she tails behind him with hasty footsteps. “They are bound to find and recognize us soon.”

“Right, well, we don’t got much choice right now,” he replies. Before rounding a corner, he slows and leans out from beyond the building wall. “There’s who knows how many of them, but it’s just us, right? They can’t go ‘bout the whole city. We can keep our heads down.”

“Something doesn’t seem right,” she says. “This shouldn’t be happening.”

“Bloody oath, with you on that. Told you something dodgy’s going on.” Junkrat motions to his side with two fingers, seeming satisfied that it’s safe to move forward. “Probably after something, just like you said. Dunno what, though. If they’re here, reckon it’s the lot back up at home base, but then why they wandering around down here?”

Satya follows closely as he presses on. The area narrows into a derelict section of apartments and homesteads, each adorned with worn brick and broken sidewalks. The concept of being hunted by someone—a terrorist organization, no less—knits something cold and pinching by her spine. “They must be looking for someone,” she says. “There is no other explanation.”

“What? Who the hell’d they even be looking for?” The muscles and tendons in Junkrat’s neck draw taut as he eyes the rooftops above. “Can’t be us. No chance. We ain’t even part of Overwatch. Seems a waste, getting all this together just to wipe out a couple of mercs.”

“They pursued Mei, remember,” says Satya. “I don’t think it matters whether we are officially with Overwatch or not. We are working for them. Anyone associated is a target. They must want to quash it before it has the chance to reform.”

“Ah, what a treat. Like ‘Straya all over again. Hot and sticky and bounty hunters on my arse. S’like I never left.” Junkrat releases a breathy exhale through his nose. “Right. Well, bright side of things, least we got some bonding time in, yeah? Reckon it woulda been back at the rock and not crawling about this place trying to avoid being shot by a bunch of fancy geared tossers, but guess I can’t really complain.”

“If you are not going to complain, I will,” she says, nose crinkled in distaste. “This is not my idea of _bonding_. Gods, I never should have left the outpost.”

“Ah, s’not so bad,” says Junkrat. “Been in worse. Been in a lot worse. Nice weather, bit of breeze, lovely sunshine, beach nearby. Hell, it’s like we’re on holiday. Wanna stop at one of them grub shops and grab us something?”

Satya glares at him. “Please, do try to take this seriously.”

“I am being serious,” he says. “Haven’t ate since dinner yesterday. Bit starved over here.”

“We are practically surrounded by enemy agents in the city just before where we’re stationed. How can you joke at a time like this?”

Junkrat peers out around the face of another corner. “I think we got company.”

“Junkrat, I _mean_ it. This is not the time for jokes!”

“Oh, I ain’t joking. Really wish I was.” He steps backward and twists about to face her. There is a fierceness that shapes his eyes, his mouth, his brow. “We got company coming right this way. C’mon, back up, we gotta move.”

“There is nowhere _to_ move,” she says. Her gaze darts around their immediate surroundings; nothing but closely packed brick buildings, steaming stone streets, and three story rooftops. “We can’t go back—what if the others followed?”

Tucking his tongue between his teeth, Junkrat digs around in one of the bags around his waist. His hands rifle through assorted inventory and push aside what’s unneeded. It’s not long before he finds what he’s looking for: the flat, heavy body of an explosive mine.

“What are you doing?” she breathes. “You can’t expect to kill them here! The racket will draw all of them this way!”

“I ain’t killing no one,” says Junkrat.

Licking his left thumb, he starts pathing about the area between the surrounding structures. Hot sunheat glistens on his shoulders, soaking down through his dappled freckles and pulling through the ragged mess of his hair, drenching him in a silent gold. After several moments of quick pacing, he drops the mine to the street and plucks a detonator out of one of the smaller pouches.

“Right, that should do it,” he says. With two metal fingers, he beckons over to where he stands. “C’mere.”

“Are you _insane_?” Satya stares at the explosive by his foot, aghast. “You’d rather blow us up instead?”

“Didn’t I just say I ain’t killing no one?” Junkrat wiggles the detonator, as if that were somehow convincing. “Look, this one’s only got a bang to it. Concussion mine. Made it meself. Lotta bark and no bite. Right, listen, just get over here, will you? For someone not too keen on eating a lead lunch, you’re being real bloody slow.”

Her pulse thick within in her neck, Satya approaches him with uneasy steps. “I’m not too keen on being in pieces, either.”

“Must be coincidence, ‘cause neither am I. Rather like all my bits intact. Bit late for that, though. C’mon, get your pretty head over here. We got us places to be. Promise, I know what I’m doing. Been doing this for years. Cross me heart.” He grins at her, gold glittering between his teeth. “It’ll be a blast.”

“Must you?” Satya heaves in a deep breath and draws up beside him, her fists tight and clenched. She can’t take her eyes off of the mine’s beige casing, the coiling wires, the red LED on its outside. “All right. What happens now?”

“Smooth sailing,” he says.

Junkrat twists around behind her and dips down in a short sweep. Before she can breathe, shout, react, he tucks his arm beneath her knees. She’s forced off kilter, equilibrium askew, and she slips backward toward the street—and he scoops her up against his chest, his prosthetic cradled against the small of her back. Satya forces a scream down the confines of her throat and somewhere between her lungs, and she tries not to let it rocket back up when he steps forward to stand on top of the mine.

“Gods, I hope you know what you’re doing,” she breathes, clutching at his neck.

“‘Course I do,” he replies. “Well, most of the time.”

Coiling himself downward, his thumb flips up the detonator lid.

“Get ready.”

Satya squeezes her eyes shut. “I am _not_ ready.”

“No worries, love.” A hearty laugh wells up beneath her ear. His heartbeat laces the timbre in a tight, constant cadence. “I’m more than ready enough for the both of us.”

The explosion wracks down through the marrow of her bones. The rippling force pulls through her clothes and whips through her hair. Flight sews in beneath her skin, sudden and swift and spinning, and harsh discordant rings sting through the film of her eardrums. With her cheek buried against Junkrat’s collarbone, she grits her teeth and swallows down the urge to shout. The pressure of his arms crushing her to him is somehow comforting amongst the chaos, but nothing draws back the adrenaline that steeps down through her veins.

The landing is abrupt. Satya is jostled in his grasp as they plunge to the roof, her legs and back crunched from the jarring impact. His body uncurls from around her as he recovers, his breath thick and close by her face. When she opens her eyes and realizes she’s safe, alive, and all in one piece, she breathes a gasping sigh and leans against him in sheer relief. His skin is damp, but warm, so _incredibly_ warm, and although the day is hot and humid and beyond bright, she relishes the feeling of him as shivers clamber up the webs of her nerves.

Slowly, Junkrat sinks to his knees and lets her pool onto the rooftop. Its surface seems to burn through her slacks; it could melt fabric and pare skin and chisel through bone. The snaking heat roots down beneath her pores to where it can eschew the prickling panic from her marrow, but it does nothing to stop the trembling.

Beside her, Junkrat sucks a breath between his teeth and rests his arms across his haunches. “Hah. See? We’re fine. Told you it was smooth sailing. Nothing to worry ‘bout. Bit singed, though.”

Satya wants to reply, but her voice is lodged down where she can’t pry it up. It sticks somewhere between her heart and her windpipe, a quiet and gentle hum in her chest, shock twisting it tight. She swallows and works the muscles in her throat and lets her diaphragm brim full, but nothing comes forth, and so she settles for a wan smile instead.

Junkrat’s brow furrows, nonplussed. Hot sunshine sleeks through his hair and sweat drips down his temples and the hard plane of his belly, soaking into the strap of the rucksack slung about his chest. As he wipes his forehead with the back of his glove, something starts to color beneath the soft freckles on his cheeks—the intense heat, she assumes—and a grin edges at one corner of his mouth.

The Rock of Gibraltar stares at them in the distance. There are sure to be agents en route to their position after such a noise, and Satya hasn’t the faintest idea of where to go now that Junkrat has launched the both of them onto Gibraltar’s rooftops. He must have some idea, she’s sure of it, but it doesn’t make the prospect of escape or the challenge of finding a hasty way down to the streets any less daunting.

“Right. Now’s probably time to get moving. I reckon someone’s down there by now if they wasn’t a minute ago.” Junkrat rises to his feet and shades his face with a hand over his eyes. A low rumble of frustration growls in his throat as he gazes over at the Rock. “Still too bloody far away. Don’t think these roofs’re gonna let us go about the way I want, either. Hope you’re ready for a bit of a run, ‘cause once we get back down, I don’t think we’re gonna have time to stop.”

Satya lifts herself to her feet and dusts her thighs. Pulling in a deep inhale, she covers her left hand with the palm of her right. The familiar shapes of the metal provide a steeping comfort. “Did you do this often?”

Junkrat turns his head. “What you mean?”

“This is all very… calculated. Like it’s something you’ve done before.” Against her better judgment, she peers over the edge of the building, and she instantly wishes she hadn’t: at least twelve black-clad agents had been drawn to the blast.

“I might’ve, yeah. Bit of roof hopping, bit of running. Two’s pretty important when someone wants your skin.” The amber of his eyes follows her gaze, and he tilts to the side to get a better view. His mouth turns in mischievous excitement. “Whole lot of ‘em down there. Hm. Let’s say we give ‘em a lovely welcome gift for coming all this way.”

“We already have their attention,” says Satya. “Are you really going to provoke them like this? We should be—well, I don’t know. Roof… hopping.”

“Oh, we will. Promise. Just gotta do a bit of damage first.” With his good hand, he rifles through some of the pouches on his belt. “Way I look at it’s like this, right: why leave somebody alive who’s just going to come and kill you later? All them’s here for a reason. Dunno what it is, but they’re here for something, and I’ll bet me other leg if they’re not at that rock already, they’re gonna be real, real soon.”

Junkrat pulls a grenade out of the pack by his right hip. It looks similar to the ones he usually leaves hitched to his harness, bulky and silver and orange with smiles etched on the sides. He holds it in the valley of his palm, fingers curled around the cylindrical surface, and gives it an approving look.

“So, what we’re gonna do is make it a bit harder for them to do their job,” he says. “Cause a bit of mayhem. Least one of them won’t be getting up, and that’s one less wanker to deal with at the rock. Easier on us, easier on the _team_ , right, ‘cause that’s the important stuff. Oh, and best of all—” He licks his lips and pulls the pin with a sharp canine and a delighted laugh, “—I get to blow something up!”

Junkrat hurls the grenade down below, teeth gleaming and eyes aflame, and Satya mashes her fingers over her ears in anticipation. She doesn’t bother to look; she has no need as she already knows the outcome, especially with the potency of his explosives. It’s several seconds before the blast hits. The resounding boom of the grenade meeting its mark coils down through her bones, muffled yet wracking, and Satya turns so she doesn’t have to see the aftermath.

“Ooh, yes, that’s just what I wanted to hear. Ha! Looks like a couple won’t be making no reports.” Mouth shaped in a devious smile, Junkrat twists about and starts over the rooftop. “Right, c’mon,” he says, beckoning after him with a sweep of with his prosthetic, “let’s get a move on. We got us some distance to hop!”

“Wait, just a moment.” Satya closes the distance in a few quick strides. She pulls her fingers out from her left palm, and Junkrat eyes her as she weaves a photon shield in the space between her hands.  “If there’s a chance we’ll be in combat, there is also a chance for injury. This will help prevent that. I might not be armed, but I can still help.” Carefully, she splays it across the muscle of his belly, and bright hexagonal sheaves of light meld down upon his skin.

Junkrat shivers under the touch of her gauntlet. “Never get used to how bloody weird that is.”

“There might be another way I can be of further help.” Centering herself, she twists her fingers together and draws apart a particularly long and rectangular wireframe. “Vishkar’s developments involve structures and buildings. I am an architech: I can create bridges to connect places where we might otherwise be prevented from going. Well, should the situation require it.”

“Just when I thought your glowy hand tricks couldn’t get any better, you go and show yourself up with something like that. _Perfect_.” He grins at her with what she thinks might be admiration, but she can’t tell. “The hell were you a year ago? Could’ve used a bridge or two!”

Roof hopping isn’t quite as glamorous as Satya had imagined, but the adrenaline webbing through her body does more than enough to make up for it. The late afternoon sun bakes the roofs in as they dart across, clambering from arched architectures to flattened tops and beyond. Junkrat dashes ahead, somehow quite agile despite the ungainly features of his right leg, and leads the way with shouts and hand signals for hard-light bridges. It’s such a shame, she thinks, placing down an arcing expanse of shimmering light; if only he had something better than his current prosthetic, he might run faster, walk better, and his posture might improve. She understands why he built it the way he did—there’s only so much one can do with scraps of metal and spare parts—but he has the resources now. Why not upgrade?

“‘Nother one, right there!” Junkrat jabs ahead with metal fingers, the Rock of Gibraltar swelling up in the distance. “Getting real close now!”

Satya weaves another connector into reality, quick and seamless and utterly perfect. It’s almost surreal how different the world is from the rooftops. Safely above the chaotic streets below, there are no distractions, no crowds, no _noise_ ; there is nothing that can pry her apart and there is nothing that can rattle her concentration. There is just her, Junkrat, the endless roofs, and the golden blot of the blinding sun.

A deafening crack registers from somewhere to her left. The uncanny whisk of something piercing right past her thrums through her ears. Her entire body tenses in shock, and she whips her gaze to the side in attempt to understand what happened.

“Watch your head!”

Junkrat shoves a metal hand down between her shoulders, and the both of them plummet to the surface of the roof, tucked past the center arch and away from danger. He lies flat on his belly, teeth gritting against umber shingles and sucking in shaky breaths. Satya groans under the blossoming bruise across her ribs. The distinct pressure of his prosthetic fingers clamps along the back of her neck, cradling her close and keeping her pressed down.

“Sniper,” he mutters, the timbre of his voice low and wavering. “That really… that really throws a wrench in things. Pulling all the bloody stops, ain’t they?”

Satya bites at the side of her mouth. “What happens now? We cannot stay up here. The streets might be safer than being easy targets. We might have places to hide.”

“Yeah. Stopping at one of them food joints’s starting to sound real good right about now.” Exhaling between his teeth, Junkrat knits his brow in thought. “Right, okay. Hang on. Got an idea. You can make bridges, right? How ‘bout a ramp? Or some sort of slide? Y’know, something that’ll put us down there ‘thout breaking anything important. I’d jump, right, but Roadie ain’t here, and two or three times ago I busted Ol’ Faithful in the fall. Can’t right afford to be missing a leg right now.”

Satya peers out to the world down below. They are three stories high, and the area beneath seems relatively clear. It wouldn’t be impossible, although the distance might be difficult to judge. Dragging her hands up in front of her, she attempts to visualize the length, the shape, the incline, and compares it to the reality into which it would be brought. It’s not quite as simple as a bridge; the curve would have to be steep at the start to cover more distance, and roll out into something far smoother to cushion the drop.

“I think I can manage it,” she says. “Although time constraints will prevent a better product.”

“You serious? That’s what you’re worried about? All we need’s something to get us from up here to down there. Don’t matter what it is. Whatever sort of thing you can pull out of thin air, it’s fine. All it’s gotta do is get us outta here.”

“I know,” she says, but it bothers her, regardless.

It takes a minute or so, but after she spins the geometry into something she can tolerate and into the dimensions she thinks will be appropriate, she presses herself closer to the edge of the roof and tries to pull it into the world. With its immense size, it’s far more difficult than she’d anticipated, and she finds herself having to revert from the swift and fluid movements she’d developed at Vishkar back to the calmer, more precise symbols and gestures she’d learned through Bharatanatyam lessons as a child.

With the design firmly in mind, the beaded wireframes coalesce between her fingers.

When she begins to place the construct, a distinct pressure encircles her waist. She can’t pay attention, not now, not during the middle of something so paramount, but it feels like the hot metal of Junkrat’s arm, and it drives the drumming cadence of her heart higher still. The prickling sense of his presence is just at her back; he’s too close, too near, and yet not enough.

Drawing in an inhale, Satya pulls the hard-light into reality. It is an almost crushing task. The plane of white and blue gleams in the blinding sunlight as it materializes into the world, and she winces as it settles into place.

“Whoa.” Junkrat leans over her in awe. His eyes follow the construct as it slides and dips down into the street below, mellowing out into a more even curve. “Well, that’ll do it. You ready for another drop?”

“No.” Satya sidles her way toward the edge, dread lining her lungs.

He leans in behind her. “Yeah. Me neither.”

The way down is both exactly and not at all what she anticipates. The initial drop is far too steep and bottlenecks her heart right up into the narrow corridor of her throat. Sliding down its sleek surface, everything meshes together in an indiscriminate blur; where there were once buildings now stands a conglomerate of brick, beige, and blotted sky. Everything sharpens as the curve dives outward, spindling together in a tight breath behind her breastbone, and she bites at her tongue to hold back the scream.

At its end, Satya skids into a roll against the cracked stone of the street. Gasping, she tries to parse her surroundings and stave off the encroaching dizziness. Junkrat follows just behind, cramming right against her side, and without a second to spare, he scrambles to his feet and hooks her up by her arms.

“C’mon, love, got no time,” he says. “Think your little slide went and snagged us some unwanted attention.”

She has no time to look. He grabs her arm, the comforting pressure of hot skin and rough fabric at her wrist, and tugs her toward the open mouth of an alleyway. There is no mistaking the plodding rhythm of someone—no, not someone, no, there are too many steps, too many—crashing somewhere behind her. There is nothing she can do now, nothing, nothing but breathe and hope and run.

Satya dashes forward with aching lungs. Her pulse hums against her eardrums and beats through the nerves of every limb. She follows the curving streets, Junkrat at her side, pushing past the pain climbing through her calves. They’re getting close, she knows it, she can’t stop now; the agents are sprinting in hot behind her and Junkrat is starting to heave in shallow breaths and the Rock is still so far away—

As she rounds a sharp corner, she skids on the ball of her foot and turns to see a tall and burly man blocking the path ahead. He’s protected by a sizeable metal chestplate, a thick brown beard adorning strong jaws and a cool countenance shaping a rough, chiseled face.

“Well, well, howdy there, folks.” The man’s voice is tempered in a deep American drawl. He tips his wide brimmed hat with a metal thumb and twirls a six-shot in his right hand. “Fine day, ain’t it?”

Satya’s heart stops. He’s aiming the barrel right at her, _right_ at her, the silver mouth hot and smoking. His teeth are impeccably white, eyes charred umber, and he seems so smug, so conceited; he’s got them, he’s got them both, she knows; she’s unarmed and enemies line up behind her in a panting semicircle and there’s absolutely nothing she can do.

All six shots are fired in quick succession. Each goes piercing past: they whip behind her, nothing but perfect haste, form, and precision, and every bullet finds the mark between the eyes of a pursuing Talon agent. The heavy sound of bodies crumbling to steaming stone etches into her ears and she thinks she chokes on oxygen.

Beside her, Junkrat doesn’t move an inch.

The man tugs a thick cigar out from somewhere beneath his weighty red serape and tucks it at the side of his mouth. He appraises both Satya and Junkrat with a lopsided grin, and he holsters his weapon at his hip with a spirited flourish.

“Say,” he says, “ya’ll wouldn’t happen to have a light, now, would you?”


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Let's have us a proper story.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xzGEiER7mkc)

 

“Wait, wait, wait. Right. Okay. So lemme understand this. You went right into one of their little hidey holes, right. Pinched a few heads. Riled up a bunch of them Talon wankers. Knicked something of theirs. And then you went and _brought_ ‘em here.”

McCree takes a deep drag from his cigar. Its stench is hot, acrid, stinging, and enough to burn at the insides of Satya’s lungs. “Well, if you go putting it that way, then yeah, I guess that about sums it up. That wasn’t really the plan, though. Just happened to work out that way. Happy little accidents and all. Meant to lose ‘em a couple countries ago, but, well, things don’t always go according to plan.”

“Bloody oath, mate. This was just gonna be an easy scrap run. S’all I came out here for. Just a couple things to get tinkering on. Then all this happened.” Junkrat leans against the warm, white stone of a rundown café, his arms crossed over his chest, one thumb hooked around the strap of his rucksack. The faint smell of freshly baked bread wafts from the back doorway and laces with the curling smoke of McCree’s cigar. “Been chased all over the damn place and don’t even got no scrap to show for it ‘cause _some_ body made me leave it all behind.”

“Junkrat, it would have been highly impractical to bring something like that. Imagine if we had traveled all this way with that noise. It would have drawn all of them to our position and we would have been dead by now.” Satya dries her forehead with the back of her arm, thoroughly exhausted. The adrenaline has run its course, and all that lingers is an intense tiredness roping around her limbs. “Besides,” she says, “it would have slowed you down. Why would you want to run with so much on your back?”

“Eh, don’t bother me none. I coulda handled it.” Junkrat shrugs, brilliant sunshine pouring over his shoulders from between the buildings above. “Not like I’m not used to hauling things around or nothing. Them RIP-tires ain’t pillows, y’know.”

“Regardless, I stand by my decision. It would have been far worse if you’d brought any of it along. For the both of us.” Satya turns her gaze over to McCree, who seems far calmer than anyone should be in such a situation. She’s not sure whether it implies past experience or tacit indifference, but his steely composure is quite enviable. “So, Mister McCree, what do we do now?”

“Aw, you don’t gotta call me that, darl’. Jesse’ll do just fine.” He pulls down his hat and threads a gloved hand through his shaggy mane of hair, damp and slick with sweat. “Well, I figure we head back for the outpost. That’s first order of business. Probably easier said than done, but we ain’t got much choice right now. Rendezvous with everyone is first priority. Second order of business: take out as many of these bastards as we can while handling the first order of business.”

“Sounds like my kinda plan, mate. Already blew up ‘bout four of ‘em ‘fore running into you. Probably more where that came from.” Junkrat tugs a small cherry grenade out from one of his pouches and begins to roll it between the pads of his fingers. His eyes are a hot, scorched amber beneath the afternoon sun, and he admires the painted shell with a gentle fondness. “Only got a couple bombs left, though. Didn’t think a scrap run would turn into a bunch of them lot chasing both of us ‘cross the bloody city. Rest of me gear’s back at home base, so I ain’t gonna be much use ‘less you got some in that hat of yours.”

“Mine is back at the outpost as well,” says Satya. “We’ve managed to get this far through perseverance and what little explosives Junkrat carried on his person. I don’t think we would have reached you otherwise.”

“Them bridges was awful nice, though. Made things a hell of a lot easier. Wouldn’t’ve made it halfway here ‘thout ‘em.” Junkrat catches the shell between his thumb and forefinger and then folds it into the valley of his palm. He catches her gaze, something equally sly and satisfied in the fire of his eyes. “Teamwork, right?”

Satya nods in reply, a smile catching the side of her mouth. He’s not wrong, she supposes. Survival was achieved through cooperation and the use of one another’s strengths to their mutual advantage, but the way he emphasized the word brings something rippling down the length of her spine. Perhaps it’s because Vishkar only distributed the bare minimum of positive feedback to keep its students and employees motivated, but his compliments—and that’s what they are, aren’t they?—seem so lavish in comparison.

It burns somewhere back beside her heart, and she doesn’t know why.

“Well, hope ya’ll’re ready for some more teamwork, ‘cause we’ll have to make a break for it here real soon. Can’t hang around too much longer. I imagine they’re not too happy about their little friends lying back there in the street. Probably will be coming this way. I got a feeling we’re gonna be followed the whole way back. Or at least ‘til the city’s edge.”

McCree leans against the café wall and puffs on the cigar, his eyebrows rumpled together in thought. His jaw rolls back and forth as his metal fingers stroke fondly at the top of his hat. He’s a tall man, she notes, one with hard eyes and sunkissed skin and a definite fierceness to his demeanor that lurks down beneath his speech’s soft pleasantries. Although the bulk of his armor conceals a good amount, he seems to be of a sturdy build, and she supposes that will be helpful should they encounter more trouble.

“And that brings us to the third order of business. Hopefully we don’t need the third, but with how many of them’re crawling about, it might be necessary.” McCree settles his hat back overtop his head, mussing down thick waves and scattered strands. “If it comes to it, we’re gonna need to lock the place down. Might not look like it, but there’s a lot of sensitive information kept there. Stuff any terrorist gang’d love to get their paws on, of course, but Talon more than anybody else. They’ve been… active. Real active. More than I’ve ever seen ‘em.”

“Winston launched the recall after one of their attacks on the Gibraltar outpost. That is what he told me when he briefed me upon my recruitment.” Satya knots her fingers together. “I don’t know what was involved. Perhaps they were after the information you mentioned?”

McCree’s brow pinches as he chews at the end of his cigar. “Well, then. That’s bad news. Real bad news. Hell. So they’ve been here already. Probably should’ve expected it, honestly. Wonder what they took.” He kicks the flat of his boot against the wall behind him before flicking the remainder of his cigar to the ground and stamping it out. “All right, then. Third order of business is on hold until we get the first and second good and done. We got some distance to cover and I’ve gotta know what all happened. Been too damn long. We’ll have to decide when we get there.”

Something shifts in the corner of her vision. Despite the roiling heat, the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. “McCree?”

“Really now, Jesse’s fine,” he says.

“Jesse.” Another rippling movement, down toward the end of the path. “I think we may want to run.”

The six-shot whips from McCree’s holster. He whirls around to face the black-clad intruders, the red of his serape a vivid crimson under the gold blot of the sun. Teeth clenched, he dispatches two aiming agents with four well-placed shots: neck, forehead, collarbone, heart. Their firearms clatter to the slate stone street outside the café, dark wells of red pooling out from beneath fallen bodies. The panicked shouts of patrons inside are sharp and shrill, and there is the distinct clatter of heavy footfalls drawing closer.

“Looks like time’s up. Best we make ourselves scarce.” McCree reloads with a flick of his wrist and starts toward the mouth of the alleyway. “C’mon. Let’s move.”

The crowds beyond have thinned. Whether it’s due to the thick swelter of the afternoon heat or the pressure of Talon’s presence, Satya can’t be sure, but the hot stonework ahead is open and void of lingering bodies. With Junkrat jogging at her side in his lopsided gait, she follows McCree as he leads them down sprawling streets and narrow alleys. The tightness in her lungs hooks under her diaphragm and spikes upward in hot lances; she’s aching, weary, drained, and the third dose of adrenaline this afternoon is not nearly as potent and does little to numb the pain.

Ahead, McCree bolts into a sharp turn. Satya skids after him and pumps her calves into the run. Junkrat clambers just behind, and the clack of his peg and the thump of his boot strike against uneven stone. She thinks she can hear footsteps gaining somewhere on a parallel street over the sharpness of Junkrat’s hasty inhales, but with her own breath a hammering din within her body, she can’t be certain until the crack of gunfire erupts from behind.

Junkrat shoves her to the side and lurches into a roll. The blunt force of his prosthetic in the knot of her belly smashes her shoulder into a hard face of smouldering brick. Satya stumbles, but presses her elbow against the building and launches herself forward toward McCree’s billowing serape. She takes five agonizing steps before she realizes that Junkrat hasn’t moved. Panic sluicing her nerves, she twists on one foot to see two operatives sprinting up from the opening of an adjacent street.

The clustered spread from the agents’ firearms paints a cracked and smoking arc above his head. He’s scrambled onto one knee, sweat slicked down his back and through flared black and blond. The melded second skin of hexagonal light has shattered across his abdomen. Thin, glasslike shards litter the ground by the heel of his palm, a monochrome mosaic beneath the summer sapphire sky.

“Oh, I hope you lot can do better than that.” With a lilting laugh in his throat, Junkrat rips a grenade out of his right pack and clamps his teeth down on the pin. “Best open wide, mate.”

Gunfire meets the gleaming casing of a smile-touched grenade. The explosion rumbles through beneath her feet, up her legs, through her bones; it lights up the thin alleyway in a curling plume of smoke and fire and cracks the world in a ringing roar. Junkrat has been engulfed by the edges of its radius, and a piercing thread of alarm anchors by her collarbone.

“The hell just happened?” McCree barrels in beside her and positions his body between her and the smoke as a makeshift buffer. Eyes narrowed, he aims out into the clearing haze, his metal hand hovering over the silver barrel. “Hey, kid, you all right over there?”

“Yeah, m’fine.” Junkrat’s voice is low and guttural, as if something old and rusty were climbing up the sides of his throat. The shape of his lanky frame staggers upward in the aftermath of the dissipating smoke, and he steadies himself against the rough brick of a nearby building. His chest and face have been graced with a thin film of murky black, and his metal fingers nurse at something by the bottoms of his ribs. “Not them, though. Reckon they had someplace to be ‘cause they started running. Looked all urgent.” He laughs, all delight and madness and mania. “Just… ripped ‘em right up not making it.”

“You sure you’re all right?” McCree lowers his weapon and assesses Junkrat with an arched eyebrow. “Mighty big blast there.”

“Ah, wasn’t bad. I’d give that one a seven.” He grins, the white and gold of his teeth a rather stark contrast to the residue enveloping his face. “I’ve made far better. Suppose I can’t go whinging ‘bout it, though. Did the job just fine. Blokes in proper pieces.”

With a grunt, he peels himself off of the wall and makes his way over to Satya. He has a bit of a limp, he realizes—not that his usual gait doesn’t have a slight hobble—and without a second thought, she closes the distance and pries away his prosthetic with her left hand. Underneath the layer of chemicals, dust, and shaved bits of stone, a sizable cut adorns the skin beneath his bottom left rib. It is a long, knifelike streak that climbs around his side and ends before it can kiss his back: a bullet graze. Thin threads of red well in its wake.

“You’re bleeding,” she says.

“S’only a scratch, is all. Nothing like before. ‘Least all the insides are staying in this time ‘round.” He attempts to rub the soot off of his face with his right shoulder. His cheeks scrub somewhat cleaner, but more black dust obscures the skull of his tattoo. “‘Sides, I took some with me. I’d say that’s worth it. What’s a cut or two, yeah?”

“We spoke about your recklessness, Junkrat. Twice, if memory serves.” Satya draws her lips together in a frown as she pulls a sheaf of light from between her fingers. She melds another photon shield over across his skin, fingers splayed, and he clenches his teeth in a tight shiver.

“Yeah? Probably did. Maybe. Don’t remember.” He presses his palm to his belly to test her work. A pale shimmer streaks across the sooty residue, and he nods his approval. “Not like it can be helped. Ain’t no burly blokes to hide behind here. Just you, me, and the cowboy.”

“You do realize there are other ways to be less reckless than using Reinhardt’s shield, correct?” She peers down at the cut. While it is a decent length, the depth itself doesn’t seem too bad. It’s definitely not the wound he’d sustained jumping through the front lines at the ruins, and she supposes she should be thankful for that.

“Might be,” he says with a shrug. “Don’t see how it matters, though. We’re not on one of them little outings.”

Satya could list a whole slew of reasons why it still matters, but she draws a breath and wills herself to remain cool. She could have the most compelling and comprehensive argument in the world, and yet he’d still look at her with that insufferable grin and claim he didn’t know what she was on about. He does this to get a rise out of her, she knows, but everything be damned, the bait is difficult to ignore.

After Junkrat has been tended to, McCree takes the lead once more. The northern face of the Rock is incredibly close, and he cuts through twisting alleys on switchback inclines and along the sides of sunbleached squares. Pursuing agents are dispatched with his precision aim and with the very last of Junkrat’s grenades, paving an unfortunate path of damaged streets, broken buildings, and lifeless bodies.

Satya runs with the compulsion of survival smoking through her lungs, and yet she still feels pangs of guilt crunching under her breastbone at the thought of participating in such destruction. She knows that such sacrifice is necessary, that it means nothing in the grand scope, but it does little to assuage her. A part of her wishes to offer her services to rebuild what has been damaged, or perhaps to help repurpose the less glamorous areas, but she knows she would be needed if she were to leave. Right now, Vishkar is not where she belongs, and she can’t submit to its gravitating purpose. It is not her place to redevelop or realign. Not now.

As the Rock looms just ahead, everything thins out and begins to slope at a steeper grade. McCree passes the tan face of a store front at the edge of a broad road, the pale wicker of tables and chairs abandoned to the blistering afternoon. He steps past the corner wall, the spurs on his boots clicking with every heavy footfall, and as he passes by the woven body of a chair, a sharp hiss curls up from somewhere amidst the furniture.

Billowing plumes of violet smoke envelops McCree’s body in a thin haze. Satya is too far behind to see exactly what’s happened, but she watches him seize up in a sudden shudder and sink to his knees. His pistol strikes to steaming stonework in a sharp echo, and he succumbs to a coughing fit rife with gasping heaves—his hands clench, his spine arcs, his diaphragm shudders, and the muscles in his neck work with wracking intensity.

“McCree!” Satya starts toward him, alarmed and mystified. “McCree, what’s wr—”

“Wait.” Junkrat captures her by the wrist and yanks her backward.

“What? _Why?_ ” She tightens her jaws and gestures to the struggling man. “Look at him, he’s—”

“I know. I got eyes.” Junkrat flicks his gaze to the roof. His countenance is contorted with something thin, something trepid. “And we got somebody watching.”

Satya twists and follows the direction of his stare. Perched on the umber shingles of the roof above is the lithe form of a woman, her black and violet bodysuit glinting under the Gibraltar sun. Her ebon hair is roped into a long tail, rippling out through the sea breeze, and she holds a scoped rifle to her eye. She is too far away to discern any proper details, but there is little doubt of the nature of her profession.

“From earlier.” A lance of ice cools through her blood, but Satya holds it close beside her lungs and steels herself.

“I reckon.” Eyes locked on the sniper, Junkrat paws at the pouches by his hips, searching for something he might use. “And I got nothing left.”

“Jesse McCree, you have been quite the nuisance.” The woman trains the barrel of her rifle on his back, her voice a smooth whip in the wind. Some sort of helm encompasses a part of her head, although Satya can’t distinguish any intricacies of its design. “Perhaps you should run less. It makes the process of dying much easier.”

McCree clutches at his throat, rattling out clattering coughs. “I thought I—I got _rid_ —of you back in—in _Madrid_.”

“And I thought I was rid of you, yet I found you again.” A low, sultry laugh whisks down from the rooftop. “Give back what you have stolen, _s'il vous plaît_. It would please Talon to have it returned.”

“Yeah, well, it’d please me if you and your—” McCree coughs again, spitting up something dark onto the hot stone, “—little friends would kindly get and stay lost.” With a weary grunt, he presses his elbows to the ground and tries to lift himself, but a shattering crack echoes throughout the square. A sizeable hole punctures through smooth slate right by his head, tendrils of smoke unfurling up toward the sky.

“No,” says the woman, “I do not think you will leave. You must give back the item first.”

McCree grimaces as he glowers up at her. “So, you’re not here to kill me?”

“Oh, I could. Make no mistake.” Another earsplitting shot cuts through the humid air, whisking past McCree’s face and burying further into the street behind him. “I am only here to retrieve what was stolen. If you cooperate, there will be no need. However, they did not say _not_ to kill you. It was left to my judgment. Should I exercise it?”

“Some judgement.” He coughs against the back of his prosthetic. “Look, lady, I’m not gonna be giving it back. Why don’t you run along and go play murder with somebody else?”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “Did you wish to die? I thought I was being generous. You were such fun to track, you know. It would be a shame to end this little game so soon. There are too few challenges these days.”

Something brushes the back of Satya’s hand. It wrenches her out of paralysis and plants her back into reality, back under the sweltering sunheat and baking brick and with McCree pinned on the ground beneath a sniper’s eye. She jolts her gaze to her right to find Junkrat tapping at the back of her palm with a knuckle.

“What?” she whispers.

“We gotta do something,” he replies, low and soft. “Can’t just sit here. I don’t want no bullet ‘tween me eyes.”

“I know, but what could we even do? I am unarmed, Junkrat, and so are you. All of your explosives have been used on the route here. The only weapon between all of us is McCree’s gun, and if we so much as move toward it, I imagine one of us will soon be missing a crucial body part.”

Satya watches both the sniper and McCree as they exchange verbal ripostes. It seems a strange conversation, arguing over death, and from the biting words and from McCree’s sour expression, she has an inkling some sort of history lurks between them. Perhaps they had once clashed during Overwatch’s prime?

“Oi.” Junkrat nudges her again with his elbow. “Got a question for you.”

She gives him a pointed look. “Is this really the time?”

Sunlight soaks through his hair and perspiration drips down the column of his neck. His eyes have been fixed upon the shape of the woman atop the roof, and his teeth are bared in a half-snarl. “You ever throw a knife?”

“ _What?_ What kind of question is that?”

“Just a question.” Slowly, he curls his left arm behind his back. “You ever throw a knife? Any good at it?”

Satya is beyond bewildered. “No, I haven’t thrown a knife before. Why?”

“Right, then. Guess that settles it.” He bites at his lower lip, gold glimmering between his teeth. “Couple of knives beats none.”

“Junkrat, what are you doing? I don’t understand, what are—”

It’s then that she sees the familiar glitter of the hard-light blade as he draws it out of its leather sheath. Its surface gleams under the sun in a cool sapphire, the sleek grip clutched between the singed soot of his fingers. She had forgotten about it completely.

“ _Junkrat_.” Panic floods her veins and grips at the sides of her throat. “You can’t mean to… Stop. Stop for a moment. _Think_ about this. This is reckless. If something goes wrong—”

Junkrat says nothing. The blade in his hand is tucked behind his back to prevent the woman from having sight of it. His fingers flex around its grip, and he keeps his posture unnervingly still. The amber of eyes flicks back between McCree and the sniper, as if assessing both the situation and the distance.

“I will give you one last chance,” says the woman. Her dark hair flows in the caress of the breeze, fluttering past her shoulder as she adjusts her rifle’s position. “Return the item, or I will end your life. Why draw out a decision so simple? You want to live, no?”

McCree narrows his eyes. “Yeah. I’d like to. You’re making it real hard, though, missy.”

“Then return what you took.”

Junkrat’s body coils up in mounting tension. His knees bend, his back hunches, his shoulders rope taut. The knife in his hand shifts; the grip slides between his fingers and the pommel settles between his thumb and forefinger.

“I don’t think I’m allowed to just hand something like that over,” says McCree. He grins, teeth pearled and brilliant under the hot sunlight. “Pretty sure I need permission or something from a superior officer. And wouldn’t you know it—”

Junkrat’s arm rises. Muscle and tendon contract as he starts to aim.

“—I’m actually on my way to pay ‘im a visit right now. Tell you what: when I’m all done, I’ll come back here and find you. We can grab something from a nice little place I know down the road and I’ll hand it right over. Won’t put up any fuss.”

The flat of the blade catches the sun in a prism. Soft swatches of pristine color refract through its body and paint the stone below. Its immaculate design clenched in the blackened grasp of his hand is a stark contrast, and Satya can do nothing but focus on the fierce, smouldering fire in his eyes.

“Is that so? I see now that I have been far too lenient with you. I think it is time that comes to an end.” The sniper chuckles, a melodic chime on the soft breeze. “Such a shame.”

In a ripping flash of movement, Junkrat flings the dagger over his shoulder. Its angle is off and the aim is not quite precise, but it hurtles toward the woman atop the roof in a spinning arc. Sunshafts gleam across the hard-light dagger’s brilliant body as it twists toward its intended mark. Despite her scope training on McCree, she somehow senses the danger. Her body tenses, her head whips to its trajectory, and with a lightning-fueled reflex, she jerks her rifle aside and lines up for a shot.

With a resonant crack, blade shatters in a kaleidoscope of azure shards in the summer sky.

“That was foolish,” she says.

Junkrat seems to tremble beneath the threat of the barrel, but he squeezes his fingers into fists and stares up at her with a hot defiance. “Yeah,” he says. “Probably was. Y’know what, though?”

Blurred movement catches at the very outskirts of Satya’s vision. Her veins swell with adrenaline and her heart is a harsh, pounding rhythm inside the hollow of her chest, and she glances over to see McCree snagging his six-shot.

“What?” The sniper pauses and lifts her eye from the scope.

McCree jumps to his feet in a swift arc, armed once more. He pulls something out from beneath his serape, and with a hasty wind of his shoulder, he hurls it up toward the rooftop.

“Lights out, darlin’!”

The sniper twists about in surprise and reaches for a grapple on her belt, but whatever McCree threw bursts its casing and blooms into a sharp, blinding light. Satya has to shield her eyes with the flat of her hand. The punctuated explosion that follows tears through her ears in a thrumming boom and summons a cacophony of high-pitched rings. When she can see again, she looks to McCree—he steadies his aim, and then fires all six shots toward the sniper with unmatched speed.

There is no time to process things. There might be blood, she might be wounded, she might be dead, but Junkrat grabs Satya’s arm and yanks her forward. McCree has already bolted ahead; he sweeps a hand over his shoulder in a motion to follow, and Junkrat pulls her after the cowboy’s fleeting footsteps. Her shoes crunch over the broken shards of the hard-light blade as they sprint past the store front and hook toward a back alley, and all that surfaces in the back of her mind is the way he’d grinned at her with it in his hand after the fall. _Dynamite_ , he’d said—he was tired and exhausted but so alive and smirking and with polished pieces of gold pressed in his mouth— _she’s dynamite_.

Following McCree is more difficult than it was. Satya recognizes this area, but McCree moves in jagged patterns with buildings overhead to provide much needed cover. With his crimson serape alight under the sun, he climbs the sloping streets and works his way farther toward the Rock. When she and Junkrat finally manage to close the distance between themselves and McCree, he slows his pace and offers a weary wave.

“That was some throw back there,” he says, and tips his hat with his left hand. “You got me out of a real snag. Much obliged.”

“No worries, mate. Just thanks for earlier when you took out that lot that was on our backs.” He exhales through his teeth and rubs at his eyes, and Satya notes a distinct tremor through his movements. “Wish it’d hit, though. Really wish it did. Not too keen on the likes of her.”

“Me either. Damn woman won’t leave me alone. She’s been on my tail since I skipped over ‘cross the pond. For a good reason, ‘course, ‘cause I’ve been nosing in places I shouldn’t, but that don’t make it any less a pain in the ass.” He laughs between even breaths. “Reckon them bullets oughta keep her busy for a good while.”

The rise to the first checkpoint is a decent amount of distance, but once the city drops away and the roads break into unpaved landscapes of grooved earth and scattered gravel among tall trees and sparse foliage, the trek becomes easier, and their pace slows into something less backbreaking and far more manageable. Satya finds herself glancing over her shoulder, cautious and on edge, searching for a glimpse of the woman in violet poised upon a hillside or down toward the city’s entrance, but she never appears.

They crest the first checkpoint, which consists of an enclave whittled out of the pale rock’s face and a small metal watchtower winding up from its base. Further up, if she squints, Satya can discern the chiseled places of the Rock where the Gibraltar outpost had been carved in. Despite its closeness, the thumping behind her breastbone doesn’t slow. Adrenaline has made its home in her veins, her heart, her lungs, and the continuous drumming has wrenched her body into exhaustion.

The rest of the ascent is calm and quiet. The overhead sun swelters down with an intense heat, and Satya wishes she had been more conscious of her choice of dress. It wasn’t so bad in the city below, but there were awnings and overhangs and the shadows of buildings under which to hide. Aside from the lush bodies of deciduous trees flanking the rigid switchbacks, there isn’t much to shield oneself from the heat. Regardless of how questionable his gear might seem, McCree seems to have had the right idea in wearing a hat.

Junkrat plods along beside her, perspiration slicked down his back and shoulders. He brings a glove to his forehead and dabs away the dampness only to have black soot stick to the fabric. It shouldn’t, it really shouldn’t, but the sight of him ragged and drenched is somehow endearing.

Releasing a noisy exhale through his nose, Junkrat unhitches the small canteen from his belt. He twists the cap and takes a testing sip. His nose wrinkles at the taste of whatever is within, but he takes another anyway; thirst must have overruled whatever argument his tastebuds proposed. From the corner of her eye, she watches as he goes to place the cap back on, but his brow pinches together and fingers pause before the canteen’s mouth.

“Oi, Symmetra. Here.” Junkrat holds the container out in front of her. His eyes remain focused on the road ahead, but they dart to her once or twice to make sure he has her attention. “S’a bit warm, right, but it’s something.”

After a moment, she tentatively accepts the offering. Its weight suggests that it’s half-empty, and a part of her wonders exactly how long it has housed whatever drink. The hard plastic shell radiates heat, and remnants of dust coating its outside. There is even a slick spot where his palm had been. It’s… disgusting, honestly, and the thought of her mouth being where his has been coils something odd by her stomach.

In spite of that, she supposes it’s a nice gesture.

Satya brings the canteen beneath her nose and gives a light sniff. The scent isn’t unpleasant, she finds; a sweet tang waters on the back of her tongue. Judging from his previous claim, she assumes it’s some flavor of tea, although which, she can’t exactly pin. With some hesitance, she takes a small sip, and she then understands Junkrat’s reaction: to call the liquid inside lukewarm would be generous, and whatever combination of fruit and cream had been added coupled with the warmth lends it a somewhat stale, sour taste.

“S’not supposed to be like that at all,” he says. She’s not sure if he means to sound defensive, but he does. His jaw is set, his lips pressed together, and he looks at the canister from the corner of his eye as if he were offended it had the audacity to retain any heat. “Fresh’s best. Reckon that beats being thirsty, though.”

She wipes the sweat away from her temple with the inside of her wrist, and she takes another light sip. It slakes the dryness of her throat and down beneath her tongue. The taste is definitely not ideal, but he’s right: it’s something.

“Thank you,” she says. “I appreciate it.” And she really does.

“Ah, no worries. Just miffed it’s not better.” He shrugs, the thick planes of his shoulders glistening under the late afternoon sunshine. “Maybe once those tossers up and leave, can get some proper stuff and show you what it’s really supposed to taste like.”

Satya doesn’t know how to respond to that, so she hands him back the canteen and dusts her hands on the dark fabric of her slacks. There is no real point in doing so as her clothes are already filthy and damp, both from her own exertion and from touching Junkrat, but compulsion tells her that it will make a difference. It has to, she thinks, it _must_ ; she can’t focus on him or his tea or his rashness with the dagger or him cradling around her as they rocketed to the rooftops. She can’t think of his heartbeat or the hum of his voice by her ear. He’s a mess. He is.

Gods. And she must look the same. Getting back to the outpost can’t happen soon enough.

Junkrat gives one last swig before capping the container and snapping it back onto his belt. His tongue traces at the corner of his mouth to lap any extra, and he slides two fingers under the strap of the rucksack over his back to adjust it. The way he rolls his shoulders and stretches out his neck shouldn’t draw her eyes, but it does, and then the heat from the sun somehow seems so much more encroaching. The awareness of her immediate proximity to him and all of the contact she’s shared within the past three hours sharpens to an almost unbearable degree.

Why is this happening?

“Well, looks like they had some company.”

Up ahead, McCree beckons over to them with his gloved hand. The outpost entrance is well in sight, carved within the rock face perhaps one hundred yards away, and as Satya approaches, there are clear signs that there has been activity here. A body or two lies strewn upon the dirt, accompanying firearms to follow, footprints of varying sorts clustered around the area. If she squints, she thinks she can make out what looks to be the third checkpoint’s great metal doors forced open. And just beyond, two figures stand in the threshold.

“I do not think the company left,” says Satya.

McCree raises his left hand over his eyes. His right darts to the pistol holstered by his hip. “You’d be right, little lady. Looks like we got us a couple of stragglers.”

As he starts to advance, the two intruders emerge from within. The shadow of the overhanging rock drapes them in layers of soft shade, and despite the amount of distance, Satya notes a visible height difference between the two operatives. She has to squint, and then she realizes that the larger of the two carries—a hammer?

“Reinhardt!” Satya steps past McCree, and the closer she gets, the clearer the giant man’s features become. He appears to be without his suit of armor, but with his thick mane of white hair and the sheer size of his chest and shoulders, there can be no mistake.

“Ah, so there you are! Angela was very worried. We were starting to think you had been captured.” With his hammer resting over the plane of his shoulder, he approaches her with swift strides. “Where have you been? You missed the battle!”

“Down in town,” says Junkrat. He lopes up behind her, his presence warm and almost overwhelming. “Though a bunch of Talon blokes had other ideas. They give you lot any trouble?”

“Trouble? Ha, you must be joking!” Reinhardt plants the end of his hammer on the ground by his feet with a shaking strike. Blood stains down the front of his tee-shirt and over his jeans, bullet holes puncturing through rough fabric, and he winks with his blind eye. “They were no match for our strength, my friend. I do not know what they expected when they barged in. Lenience? I have not seen them so bold. They were crushed.”

“Now, Reinhardt, do not get too excited. You don’t want to go pulling your back again, do you?” Mercy flits in behind him with light steps, the sleek ivory of the Valkyrie gleaming beneath the sun. “I am so glad to see you both. We couldn’t find either of you after they’d attacked. Honestly, I was starting to think—”

Mercy stops without warning. Her grip on the caduceus staff slacks and her posture softens, her mouth open and blue eyes impossibly wide.

“ _Gott im Himmel_ ,” she breathes. “Jesse? Jesse McCree? Is that you?”

“Yes, ma’am. Sure is. The one and only.” McCree pads up behind Satya and gives Mercy a fond smile. With his gloved hand, he pulls his hat off his head and dips in a respectful bow. “Good to see you, Doc. Been a real long time. You ain’t aged a day.”

“Ha, and I must say, your beard is looking quite good!” Mercy rushes to him and crushes him in a hug. “Oh, this is such a wonderful surprise! Winston said he issued the recall to everyone, but we’ve been waiting with too few replies. I was starting to think you would not respond!”

McCree chuckles, snaking his arms around her waist in a tight embrace. “Now, why wouldn’t I come running if ya’ll were getting back together? Hell, been itching for something to do. Just been a bit preoccupied, that’s all. You know how it is. When someone’s been on your tail for the past couple of weeks, makes it a little hard to get around.”

“What? What’s this about being chased?” Mercy pulls back and frowns at him with firm disapproval. “Jesse, what sort of trouble are you in this time? What did you do?”

“Not much,” he says with a grin. “Honest.”

“Oh, I know that look. You are still a terrible liar.” Reinhardt claps McCree roughly on the back. “Do not lie to Angela. Especially after so many years! It isn’t polite.”

“We were not hunted all over Gibraltar for ‘not much,’” says Satya. She would be lying if she said she weren’t amused at the reunion, although she finds his evasiveness odd. “He stole something precious from Talon. It seems as though they sent a whole squadron to retrieve it. We were nearly caught by one of their agents on the way here.”

“Stole?” Mercy glares at him. “What did you steal? And from _them_ , no less? Did you want to provoke the entire hive?”

“All right, look, I really wanted everybody together for this, but I guess I owe ya’ll an explanation, don’t I?” McCree slips himself out of Mercy’s grasp and steps to the side. Setting his hat back overtop his head, he makes a brief nod toward Satya and Junkrat. “And I guess I ‘specially owe one to the two of you, since ya’ll got dragged into all this.”

“An explanation would be appreciated,” says Satya. “This isn’t exactly what I had planned for this afternoon.”

“Me neither.” Junkrat’s arms are folded and he appraises McCree with knit eyebrows, unimpressed. “You _and_ her owe me half an engine.”

Ignoring the remark, McCree digs somewhere beneath his serape and retrieves a thin piece of metal between his fingers. It closely resembles one of the items Winston uses to transfer data between his personal computer and the mainframe embedded into Gibraltar’s base, but not quite. There is something different in its architecture, precise and compact, and it seems almost comical to launch a wide scale initiative to retrieve something so small.

“See this? Took it from some of our good friends. They’re real mad about it. Been chasing me for about two weeks now. Maybe longer. Hard to keep track of things when you got a bunch of goons hot on your tail.” McCree tosses it up in the air and catches it between his thumb and forefinger. “So, short story here for brevity’s sake, this thing’s got intel on it. A lot of intel. And I think there’s a few things ya’ll might be interested in.”

“What sort of things are you talking about?” Mercy squints at the slip of hardware, her brow pinched and her eyes narrowed. “I know you haven’t been here, but could this be what they’ve been after? Will this help?”

“I think so.” McCree holds up the shard of metal for everyone to see. It glints under the sinking sun, a smooth silver burning into rust and copper under the light’s golden glare. “According to what’s on this little thing right here,” he says, “Jack Morrison is still alive.”

Reinhardt drops his hammer, and Mercy murmurs something soft in German.

A faint smile edges at McCree’s mouth.

“Morrison’s alive,” he says, “and I know where he is.”


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _  
> [Oooh, you set my soul alight...](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pta-gf6JaHQ)  
>  _

The promise of Jack Morrison’s return proves to be a potent drug for morale.

At Winston’s behest, everyone bolts to the conference room to greet McCree and to pour over his stolen intel. Satya has never seen so many share such a staggering reaction; equal parts shock and delight, each of the old members of the Overwatch team bombard McCree with questions concerning his recent endeavors with infiltrating Talon as well as Morrison’s rumored location. Although she bears no connection to the man, from how enthused everyone has become just at his name’s mention, she suspects he must have played a massive role in Overwatch’s past. Word of his death must have been shattering for the taskforce, and the news that he still lives must be even more so.

The intelligence contained on the data slip not only details Morrison’s location—Dorado, Mexico, or so it’s claimed—but it also outlines a series of other locations around the world that have yet to be investigated by Talon’s agents. Each has specific coordinates and has been marked as a potential place for _something_ , but there is no further information on what their significance might be.

“I reckon they’re important, though,” says McCree, pressing a metal finger to the world’s hologram. It ripples under his touch, disrupting the collected beads of azure light. “I mean, why else’d they keep this kinda stuff locked down? It must mean something to someone in their little hive.”

Winston palms his chin from one of the large leather desk chairs. “If I’m not mistaken, I think this might be exactly the kind of intel we’ve been looking for. We’ve managed to extract three similar pieces from two of their other hideaways. I’ve had my suspicions about their movements since they tried to take the Overwatch agents’ location data several months ago, but this confirms it.”

“Can I ask what it confirms? I would like to know more details, if possible.” Satya dabs at her forehead with the inside of her wrist. Her skin feels as though it has a film plastered over its surface, and while she knows this meeting is of the highest importance, she wants nothing more than to excuse herself so she can bathe. “I do realize it is sensitive information and has been kept between the previous Overwatch members, but if this is going to play a major part in our missions to come, I think it is best if the rest of us understand what we are up against.”

“Well, we’ve kept it hushed because we weren’t sure if what was happening was… well, really happening.” Tracer sits in a similar chair beside Winston, the glow of her accelerator a soft blue beneath her face. She tucks a feathery lock away from her eyes and crosses her legs. “You’ve got a point, though. And it looks like they’re really trying to go through with it, so it might be best. What do you think, big guy?”

“No, I agree. I think it’s a fair request. We are becoming a full-fledged team again, and it’s time everyone is up to speed.” Winston shifts and folds his hands across the white material of the bodysuit over his belly. “So, I don’t know how acquainted you are with certain objects of power, but as a terrorist organization, Talon once pursued such an object. There are a number of them throughout the world, but we only know the location of one. As of right now, it is currently housed in the Overwatch Museum in Numbani as part of its exhibits.”

“Doomfist,” says Reinhardt. Massive arms crossed over his bloodstained shirt, he rests against the back wall, the pearlescent white of his left eye cast a delicate azure from the holograms. “Talon was stopped before when they tried to take it. It does not surprise me that they are trying a second time. Winston, you did not crush them hard enough.”

“Lena and I did as much as we could at the time. It was only the two of us. If someone had answered the recall a little sooner, perhaps we might have captured them and prevented further action.” With a complacent smile, Winston slides off his glasses and cleans the lenses on the hem of his bodysuit. He glances to Satya, and then amends, “That was about four months ago, before we found you. Two prominent Talon operatives by the names of Reaper and Widowmaker sought to steal Doomfist’s gauntlet. For what purpose, I don’t know, but there is immense power within the artifact. If placed in the wrong hands, I can only imagine what kind of damage might be done.”

“Do they seek another?” Genji stands by Zenyatta’s side toward Satya’s left, his posture straight and rigid. The green of his visor burns in the sapphire atmosphere that encompasses the room. “If their attempt at taking the gauntlet was unsuccessful, they must be searching for alternatives. There are others in the world, and there is one Doomfist currently active. Do they mean to pursue a hidden gauntlet, or do they mean to harness Doomfist himself?”

“Either seems highly plausible,” says Mercy. “It is known that Doomfist means Numbani harm due to the city’s relationship concerning humans and Omnics, but if finding him were the case, why bother to collect all of these other locations? It doesn’t make sense.”

“ _¿Por qué no las dos?_ I mean, both sound pretty good if you really think about it. If they’ve got the forces, why not? Makes sense. Cover all your bases. Two Doomfist gauntlets are better than one, and one is better than none.” McCree shrugs, scratching at his beard with a thumb. “Not like it’s gonna do them much harm. What’s a couple of dead guys to a big shady group like that?”

Distracted by movement, Satya shifts her attention to right the edge of the room where Junkrat and Roadhog have taken up residence. Roadhog rests against the wall’s smooth surface with his colossal form, back pressed close and arms crossed over the girth of his chest. Junkrat leans back in the leather-bound desk chair just beside him, tilting the seat back and forth in a rhythmic rock with the tip of his shoe. His arms are tucked back behind his head, and he stares upward at the map with wandering eyes and a canine at his lower lip. Residue cloaks at his body, and although Mercy had tended to the arcing graze that marred his left side, she thinks she can still see smudges of smeared sanguine down beneath his ribs.

It takes a moment or two, but it occurs to her that Junkrat was right: Talon _is_ after a treasure. It might not be a conventional sort of treasure like other hard currencies, but its worth must surpass countless other physical items, money and artifacts alike. Something with the strength to level buildings all packed into the small confines of a fist might be considered priceless, and as Talon proves, there is someone out there looking to get a hold of it.

Honestly, she doesn’t know whether to credit his greed or his intuition. Has he always been so astute? She doesn’t remember.

“Well, so what do we do? We can’t let them get a hold of something like that. That would be disastrous for everyone. Two gauntlets would be even worse.” Mei squints up at the world map behind her glasses, her endothermic blaster resting in the valley of her lap. Satya finds it rather odd that she should choose to wear her parka in such warm weather, but she supposes the years she’d spent in the Antarctic must have warped her sense of temperature. “Should we look into those marked areas? There sure are an awful lot of them. Or should we try to find Doomfist himself?”

“We should decide after we’ve found Jack.” Torbjörn runs the pads of his fingers over his metal hand, his nose wrinkled and his mouth pressed behind the great blond mane of his beard. “He was our leader back in the old days. He should have a say before we go off gallivanting around the world. Always had an eye for situations so we didn’t bite more than we could chew. Er, not that you’re not doing a good job of it or anything, Winston. I don’t mean offense.”

“None taken,” says Winston. “I’m in agreement, though. Commander Morrison—well, not commander. Not anymore. Still, I think retrieving Morrison should be our first course of action. He might even have more information to help us with this. If he’s been alive all this time, who knows what he might have learned?”

Mercy rises from her chair, eyes focused on Dorado’s location on the world map. “So, when do we leave? I imagine sooner is better than later. If they knew of his whereabouts, they must have been tracking him for some reason or another. I hope we are not too late in reaching him.”

“How fast can everyone get ready?” Tracer leans forward, lacing her hands together. “I can have the ship up and running in no time, but we’ll need to figure out what to do once we get there. We can’t just roam around the city and hope to run into him somewhere, right? Going to need a bit more to go on.”

“Yeah, probably not too efficient,” says McCree. “How ‘bout tomorrow evening? Gives us some time to rest, clean up, get ourselves together. Haul some of these bodies off. Think it’d let us formulate some kind of plan, too, and maybe do a bit more digging on Dorado and what Morrison might be up to.”

“I think that sounds reasonable. In an event like this, we’ll need some time to prepare.” Winston disengages the data stick from the tactics table and hands it back to McCree. “Let’s plan on another get together at noon tomorrow to go over what we can. We’ll aim to leave at 1800 hours, which should put our arrival at around five or six the following morning. That should be a decent amount of time to get ready. However, I believe a number of us should stay here in the event that Talon should get curious again. And, if I’m not mistaken, we have a supply drop in two days, don’t we?”

“Tuesday,” says Torbjörn. “I’ll volunteer to stay. Someone has to be here to sign. It looks like I have some turrets to assemble about our perimeter, too.” He folds his arms and grins. “Just make sure you bring Jack back. I have a few choice words for him.”

“I will also stay and defend.” Genji nods at Torbjörn. “Morrison will need a place to return. We will make sure Gibraltar is safe.”

“It’s appreciated. We may need one or two more, depending on what we can find out by tomorrow. We’ll have to see what information we can find.” Winston scans the team behind the lenses of his glasses. “Is everyone in agreement?”

An affirming murmur from the group fills the room in reply.

“Great. I’ll see everyone at noon, then.” He lifts two fingers to his forehead and gives a toothy grin. “Dismissed!”

As everyone trickles out of the conference room, Satya breathes an inward sigh of relief. Since early this afternoon, everything has been nonstop; Junkrat’s impromptu scrap run, the Talon agents’ presence, her flight through the city’s streets, McCree’s entrance, the harrowing encounter with the sniper—everything has demanded her utmost attention, and has left her with little chance to recover. On top of it, an hour or two of being stuffed in a cramped room with the rest of the team has left her emotionally and socially spent. To say she is grateful for the allotted time to decompress would be a severe understatement.

Slipping between Genji and Reinhardt, she makes her way back to the barracks with restrained haste. Her clothes are a mess, her body feels sticky with sweat and dirt, and she swears there _must_ be a spot where she came into contact with Junkrat’s soot and residue. The acrid tang still lingers somewhere on her person, and she can’t seem to get away from it. It crinkles her nose and stings at the back of her mouth, and while she knows she shouldn’t, she far prefers the musky scent that curled up by his collarbone as he rocketed with her toward Gibraltar’s rooftops.

After retrieving a fresh set of clothes, a towel, her shower tote, and the case for her hard-light gauntlet from her space in the barracks, Satya makes her way toward the communal washroom. She wastes no time in claiming the third shower at the end of the room, the one she’s used since she first arrived at Gibraltar. Placing her items on the center line of benches, she begins to remove her gauntlet with critical precision. She edges her nails under particular overlaps of metal, tugs them apart, and pulls them from overtop her arm. Each piece is set with care in its designated spot inside the velvet inner lining of the case. She laments at the dingy state of the once pristine white metal, but before she can properly scrub and polish its joints and outer surface, she first needs to tend to herself.

Satya ducks into the stall to leave the tote and twist the shower on to a moderate warmth. As it slowly heats, she takes a degree of pleasure in peeling off her clothes. Her blouse is too hot, too damp, and with a noticeable layer of dust speckled everywhere about its fabric. Her slacks are dark and hide it better, but there are still ample blots of dirt from their flight across Gibraltar’s streets clustered around the bottoms of the legs. After everything has been shed, she bundles her filthy clothes up and tucks them beneath the line of benches. Pulling the tie out, she threads her nails through cascades of thick black hair and draws the stall’s white curtain closed behind her.

Slowly, she sinks to the bench against the wall. The showerhead is angled so that it sluices her over in steady waterfalls, pouring down atop her scalp and rolling down her back, and she exhales a breathy sigh beneath the pressure. With aching muscles and exhaustion kneading through her limbs, she rests her head against the cool tile. The sensation of hot water drumming down her skin is something to relish. She imagines the grime sloughing off, dripping down her calves and carving a path down toward the devouring drain, and she closes her eyes in silent pleasure. While the outpost’s washroom is neither the prettiest nor the most comfortable, it serves its purpose well enough, and she supposes that’s all that matters.

Ten minutes pass. The heat from the water conjures plumes of steam that pull into her lungs. The hollow of her chest swells with gripping warmth and her extremities shortly follow. She knows she needs to lather up and start scrubbing so she can finish and prepare for the mission ahead, but the will to do more than sit and breathe is nonexistent. The white noise of raining water serves as a familiar sort of comfort, and she keeps herself still and steeps in the surrounding thrum.

It’s not long before her thoughts focus on Junkrat. No matter what she does to prevent it—breathing exercises, mental schematics, straightening her belongings—he manages to seep in through the cracks of her composure unasked and unbidden. During combat, everything has its proper rhythm, and if he squeezes in during the midst of it, she doesn’t mind. Battle and stressful encounters are compartmentalized into their own separate space with their own separate rules and tolerances; there are different thresholds and different necessities in place, things that help her cope with the movement and the clamor around her, and they are far, far different than her mind at rest and alone.

And she is alone. It’s reprieve, recovery, and respite from the tumult of the outside world, and yet it comes with its own set of stressors. Said stressors manifest as a tall and wiry man with fire in his veins; a man who has saved her on two separate occasions, and who had made a point to push her out harm’s way not once, but _twice_ this afternoon—does this mean he’s at four points now? she wonders, but quashes the thought before it can flourish—and who had offered her sips of the soured tea on his belt. Said stressors also manifest as exasperating iterations of satisfied grins and the stippled plateaus of freckled shoulders and etched hiplines framed by almost offensively low-slung shorts.

Satya clenches her jaws and tries to shove him out with a renewed vigor. She might like him and he might consider her a friend and he might be attractive in a strangely destructive way, but there is no reason for her to be so consumed by his presence when he isn’t even present. It’s ridiculous, she knows, it really is, but none of her mental techniques prove any use. The idea that someone so opposed to everything she stands for could shatter the barriers she uses to keep the world at bay is somehow intrinsically _compelling_ , and the longer she resists, the more frustrated she becomes. It shouldn’t be this way, she thinks; he never should have cracked his way in. She should have remained the stoic pillar of composure, just as she always has, and she should have brushed him off like water rolling down her back.

But she didn’t. Instead, she wove a shield to stabilize the punctured wound he’d been too stupid to avoid. Instead, she’d run to him when Genji held him by the throat and she’d tried to wrench away the hands that closed around his windpipe. Instead, she’d surpassed her own abilities and bent light into reality to pull a teleporter into the world without a grounding plane just to spite death’s watery advance and to tear him away from its awaiting maw.

It’s horrible. He’s helped her grow. Through his rash behavior and gripping madness and his penchant for everything volatile, he’s helped her grow and it’s horrible and she _hates_ it.

Gods. Zenyatta was right: accepting Junkrat as such a thing in her life is truly a momentous task. She doesn’t understand how she is supposed to find balance like this. Accepting her own failure to maintain the cool and casual indifference she reserves for all others is accepting that failure is possible. It is accepting that perfection cannot be ascertained, and that despite her efforts and despite all that Vishkar shaped her into through their tutelage, she is still so susceptible and vulnerable and _weak_ —just as she was in Hyderabad.

Footsteps well up over the gentle cadence of pouring water. Eyes stinging, Satya channels her attention toward the sound, grateful for some sort of distraction. They are too faint at first, too far, but as they draw closer, more details become apparent. The first thing she notices is the length of time suspended between each: the initial step seems normal, but the following is just short, compensating, somewhat shy of a full stride. The second thing she notices is the heaviness: the first is of a usual weight and what she might expect from an individual of average build, but the second vastly differs and carries another tone to its step.

There is no other person who would have such a unique gait, and with a thick knot wedged in the hollow of her throat, she wonders what on earth could have possibly brought him here.

Satya expects Junkrat to make some sort of crude remark when he passes her stall, but he doesn’t. She expects him to rearrange her belongings or to sabotage her clothes somehow, but he doesn’t. All she hears is the slow stop of his steps, the clipped noise of unhooking a belt, the muffled rustle of clothing. She hears the rumpled drop of what she can assume are either his shorts or the various pouches and packs clipped about them. There is then the soft grunt of him lowering himself further down the benches, and then the distinct clink of him unstrapping and removing the peg on his right leg. He sets it along the floor, a louder, heavier clank, and then he moves on to his arm. It takes him somewhat longer than his leg—only one hand and using his teeth, perhaps—and then it, too, joins its counterpart on the tile with a metallic jingle.

Either this is a massive fluke in the timeslip or something must have torn somewhere in the fabric of the universe, because she cannot believe he is actually going to bathe two days in a row.

Junkrat grips onto the second to last stall beside hers, the metal yielding to his weight with a light creak, and hauls himself in with an awkward hop. There is a brief pause where she thinks he must be shedding the last strip of clothing on his body, and then the twist of the shower knob follows just afterward. When the surge of water spills in, Junkrat staggers back against the stall with a yelp.

“Fucking _hell_ that’scold.” The sharpness of his voice is almost enough to make her wince.

“You should have waited,” she says, and then promptly covers her mouth with her palm. No, no, no, why did she _do_ that—she doesn’t need to talk to him, she doesn’t; not in the washroom and not _naked_ and definitely not in such close proximity! What does she think could—

“Right, yeah, yeah, seeing that now.” There is a pressed exhale between his teeth, balancing overstimulation and the desire to bolt. “Keep forgetting. Reckon water should least be the same as the room, but it’s like it’s been kept in a bloody freezer.”

So much for a quiet, comfortable shower.

It’s about thirty seconds of waiting before he deems everything warm enough to tolerate. From where she’s situated, Satya has a view of his foot beneath the stall, and she watches as he turns about and lets himself settle on the bench inside. He stretches out his leg, heel propped against the wet floor, and she assumes he leans back against the tile wall because his left hand had guided him across. Below, streams of black and grey trickle in rivulets down his calf and by the bench, carving paths between the thin squared grooves of the flooring. It probably shouldn’t, but seeing the filth slide off of him as if he were shedding a second skin grants a strange twinge of pleasure between the spaces of her lungs.

“Junkrat,” she says.

“Yeah?” The timbre is lower, smoother, made mellow by the warmth.

Satya absently traces the polished surfaces of her nails along her thighs. “What is the score now?”

“Three to two,” he replies. “Why you ask?”

She draws in a breathful of steam. “You—you pushed me out of danger.”

“I did?” A moment passes, drumming water and hot air and vapor pluming by her mouth, all crushed into its confines. “Yeah, right, guess I did.”

“Shouldn’t it be three to four? It was twice. Once from the sniper, and once while we were being chased.”

“Yeah. Right, well, that don’t really count, now, does it? Wasn’t a planned thing or nothing like that. Not a proper mission.” He shifts on the other side of the stall, his leg drawing back and the sole of his foot splayed flat on the floor. “All this is just for when we ship out. Y’know, for stuff like tomorrow, or the other little outings we’ve been on. Don’t rightly count when it’s on our doorstep.”

“That requirement was never stated as being part of it.” Satya moves the pads of her fingers across her left hand. Her hard-light gauntlet is stored safely in its case, yet she draws habitual lines between the soft skin on the undersides of her joints and the protruding hills of her knuckles. “You’re changing the rules. I don’t think that’s allowed.”

“Right. It’s my idea, though. ‘Course it’s allowed. Can change ‘em if I want. It’s all at my discretion. And my discretion says ‘missions only.’” The water does little to mask his delighted laugh. “‘Sides, s’not fair if I just go and pop up two in a day, yeah? Don’t wanna beat you that bad, love. I mean, I’m not minding a prize, right, but s’no fun if it’s over that fast. I’ve got _some_ stamina. Gotta give me a bit of credit here.”

“You do have remarkable stamina.” The words drop from her mouth like a paperweight and plummet down past her teeth to mix with the pathing water. There is no way to shove them back in, there is no way to rewind, and the connotation registers with a cold lance of realization harpooning between her shoulder blades. “Earlier, I mean,” she hastily amends. “When we were running. You never seemed tired. Not even when we were with McCree. You must be well-conditioned.”

That… doesn’t sound much better. At all. If she’s brutally honest.

There is a pause that feels like stunned silence, although she has nothing to judge by other than the tensing of his foot. He’s lifted his heel from the tile, and the line of muscle that carves from his ankle up to his calf is far more defined. What that might translate to is beyond her understanding, and a part of her wishes to see his face so she can better read his body language. Talking through a wall is not at all ideal, but the very real fact that he is just as naked as she is plasters to the forefront of her brain, and she is having a very hard time forgetting it.

Satya’s cheeks burn. Mortification webs its way in to nest among her ribs. The water sluicing her over seems far hotter than it had before, and discomfort coaxes her hand toward the shower knob to turn it cooler. The vivid image of him smirking at her from within the shower stall jams too neatly into her mind’s eye: his hair is lank, soaked, the towel draped across his lap; his hips dip downward in pleasant angles and drops trickle down his belly and fire presses into the amber of his eyes.

There isn’t a way to save face for this, is there?

“Well-conditioned,” he repeats at last from beyond the wall. His voice lilts into something satisfied, amused, like he’s suppressing laughter in his diaphragm. “Well, suppose that’s one way of putting it. Does take a bit ‘fore getting all knackered. Just used to it, is all. Leg don’t help much, but I get around.”

Satya doesn’t know how to interpret that. Is… is he referring to running, or—

“You got some stamina yourself, y’know. Keep up pretty well.” His foot has begun to tap a drowned rhythm under the stall. She stares, nonplussed, focused on the only visible part of him that might offer her greater insight. “Didn’t see you dragging at all. Even with all them hand tricks. Got us where we needed to go, no problem. Not bad, I’d say.”

She leans her head against the tile, wishing the hot and prickling sensation at the bottom of her throat would vanish. “Junkrat.”

“Symmetra.” The timbre of his voice is terribly pleased, and she doesn’t think she can handle it.

“You are enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“A bit, yeah.” He chuckles beyond the wall, the echoing tenor of his laughter harmonizing quite well with the washroom’s acoustics. “Didn’t think you’d be too keen on it, to be honest.”

“I’m… usually not.” She could offer more, but she doesn’t.

“You started it, though,” he says.

“I did no such thing,” she replies. “The initial comment was yours.”

“Right, well, you helped. Remarkable stamina, she says. _Remarkable_. Can’t tell me that ain’t helping. Takes two for that, y’know.”

“ _Junkrat_ —”

“Aw, c’mon,” he says. “Was just having a laugh. Don’t mean nothing by it. Long day and all. Could use something light, yeah?”

Junkrat shifts somewhere in his place in the stall, the gentle patter of the water obscuring the softer sounds of his body’s movements. The angle of his foot arcs in her direction before he lifts it upward and—she assumes—crosses his leg over the flat of the bench. From how he’s chosen to rearrange himself, it seems as though he would be facing her if the wall were absent, although she can’t be certain. The very idea knocks a tremble down her vertebrae.

“Right, here, bit of a recap for you. I left my haul on the street—still owe me, by the way, case you forgot—and those Talon bastards came for us right after. Some sniper followed us and ‘bout popped your pretty head, then cowboy showed up and brought heaps more of them Talon bastards with him ‘cause he decided to go and knick something. When we finally shook ‘em off, the both of us nearly got nice little souvenirs ‘tween the eyes as a parting gift. All in a day’s work, innit?”

Satya hears him breathe an exhale over the water’s continuous patter. It’s low, full, an octave of his voice threading beneath. She doesn’t know if it’s from fatigue or whether it’s the heat of the water, but it seems close, tired, intimate; it reminds her of when she’d found him sleeping in the workshop, mumbling incoherent syllables into the crook of his arm.

“Been through worse, though,” he says. “Plenty worse. So it’s not so bad, really. Not when you think about it. Turned out all right at the end. Just like the drop.” His voice is deeper, somehow stern, and with none of the playful inflection from before. “Still, I reckon a laugh or two’ll do us good. Even if you ain’t too keen. Might make the day a bit less long. S’how I look at it, anyway.”

Junkrat isn’t wrong, she supposes. A part of her may be reluctant to agree, but he does raise a good point. He might downplay danger with wild grins and smiling grenade shells and he might make light of serious situations with puns and wordplay, but in the larger scope, she supposes it’s for everyone’s benefit. Humor dulls and chips away at stress and fatigue. It has tendency to make things easier to digest. It isn’t a panacea, but even the toughest things seem to go down better.

Is that why he laughed during their fall?

Satya stares at the open space beneath his stall. The pools rippling across the floor stipple with the raining water and draw leisurely trails toward the drain a bit farther down. Everything pours clean with no whorls of black or swimming soot. With a creased brow, she lifts herself from the tile and gazes up at the place among the metal wall where he would rest.

“It makes sense, I’ll admit,” she says at last. “It’s to take the edge away.” Satya reaches down for the shampoo bottle from her tote on the floor, hoping to busy herself with something other than imagining what he looks like on the other side of the wall, but uncapping the top and smoothing the lather through her hair does little to prevent it.

“Yeah, helps,” he says. Her mind paints him leaning along the hollowed barrier of the stall, resting his temple against his arm as he props it on damp metal. His hair is soaked, just as it was before, and frames his face in dripping blond. “For a while.”

As she works her hands through wet and soapy strands, Satya finds herself compromised. Another part of her might be even more reluctant to agree, but in spite of the double entendres’ raunchy nature, his heart seems to be in the right place. And it’s strange, because she hadn’t imagined this. She hadn’t imagined herself having this conversation, especially with Junkrat, and even if she had, she certainly wouldn’t have imagined it taking place in the showers. Why not in the workshop, or somewhere on the outpost’s grounds? Even the mess hall would have been preferable to this. Anywhere would be better than naked beside him in the washroom.

Heat collects beneath the surface of her skin at the reminder.

“Thank you,” she says.

“What for?” Satya can’t see his face, but the tone of his voice lends an air of puzzlement.

“For… well, for helping.” She circles her nails along the top of her scalp and tries to keep her voice steady. “You said it takes two.”

Junkrat laughs, light and satisfied. “Ah, now that’s more like it. Don’t gotta act so serious, though.”

“I am only thanking you. I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

She does, but she can’t say anything. She tells herself she can handle everything the world can throw at her because that’s all she’s ever done; she’s grown and adapted and conquered and become the best at her craft. In spite of that, there are things she can’t overcome, and if anything, Junkrat himself is tangible proof of that.

“So,” she says, leaning her head beneath the stream of water, “can I ask why you’re here?”

He makes an amused noise in his throat. “Why are _you_ here?”

“To bathe.” The soap trails down, white foam collecting beneath her feet. “Somehow, I find it odd that you would be doing the same. I think I have seen you clean a total of three times since you’ve arrived. Did someone threaten you?”

“Yeah, yeah, Ol’ Angel Wings kicked up a fuss,” he says. “Said she was gonna whip up something nice for the cowboy, and if I wanted any grub tonight, I’d see myself washed for dinner. So, right, here I am. Seeing myself washed.”

“Food seems to be a good motivator for you,” she says. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I remember you running a touch faster when you’d mentioned you wanted to stop somewhere for lunch while we were being chased.”

“Motivator, huh.” He rearranges himself again, his foot sliding down to lie flat across the floor. The trails of her soap glide past and bubble by his toes. “I can think of a couple better ones.”

Satya freezes while combing out the last of the lather. It shouldn’t surprise her—really, why does anything with him at this point—but it does, and she has to work down a forceful swallow. “Should I bother to ask?”

“S’not what you’re thinking,” he says. “Well, not like a bit ago. Nothing questionable, right. Won’t harm no delicate sensibilities. Promise.”

She fetches the bottle of conditioner and folds the dollop into her hair. “All right. What are better ones?”

“Proper sleep.” It’s wistful. Somber. The timbre has dipped into something that sounds like regret, but she can’t be certain. “Don’t get much. Never really got much, to be honest. Would be nice to just conk out and be dead for half the day and wake up twelve hours later all bright-eyed. Miss it something chronic.”

“You do seem to have poor sleeping habits.” She lets the incident of him falling asleep in the workshop go unsaid. Absently, she marvels at how massive his sleep debt must be. “Why not start going to bed earlier?”

“Don’t work that way. Wish it did. I’m all for it, but the rest of me don’t like it. Too awake. Antsy. End up getting up to go work on something ‘cause nothing wants to shut off.”

“Training yourself to accept a new sleep regimen takes time. You must begin gradually, you know.” Letting everything set, she reaches for the washcloth and the soap. “Well, if you can’t have good sleep as a motivator, what is another one?”

Junkrat makes a soft humming over the watery patter. “Good drop of tea,” he replies.

“Tea?” she asks. “Really? I didn’t expect that response.”

“‘Course. S’good stuff. You ain’t never had any, have you?”

“I’ll have you know I’ve had all sorts of teas,” she says. The cloth covered in soap, she starts to scrub below her jaws and down her neck. Its texture is not soft, but it isn’t rough, either. “Primarily hot teas, though. Nothing like what you had me try.”

“Ah, see, now that’s where you’re missing. You don’t need nothing like that in a ‘Strayan summer. Cold stuff’s where it’s at. Got a bit of milk, and some fruit bits, maybe. And with all them little jellies.” A deep, satisfied sigh pulls up from the other stall, and his leg tenses out as if his whole body were indulging in a stretch. “Could really go for some. Y’know, when me and Roadie was down there in town ‘bout a week ago, saw some little hole in the wall that looked like it might be worth trying. Don’t know if they got my kind, but they might got yours.”

Satya pauses mid-scrub along her cheek. Is he—is he asking what she thinks he is?

“Reckon them parts’ll probably be swiped by the time I get back,” he says, heel pressed into the grooves of the floor. “Nothing lasts like that. Someone just knicks it if you go and do all the work for ‘em. We got us a mission tomorrow, anyway, grabbing what’s his name, so I gotta scope out some other scrap heaps. And you, Miss Order—” He taps on the stall, three times in rapid succession, “—you owe me half an engine. So you get to tag along.”

Ah, no. Not asking. Of course not. It wouldn’t be like him to ask, now, would it?

Pressing her fingers to her mouth, she bites at her knuckle and weighs the scenarios. While she does have an errand to do the following Friday to pick up the fabric she’d ordered, the concept of following Junkrat around Gibraltar in search of vehicles he might gut for parts does not seem quite so appealing. A tea shop, on the other hand, very much does. She could kill two metaphorical birds with one trip, which would reduce her time spent out in the crowded town below—although she would have to suffer his company in the process.

“Do I have a say in this?” She doesn’t know why she’s asking, as she suspects she already knows the answer. She resumes scrubbing and works down to her collarbone.

“No, not really,” he replies. “‘Sides, you was complaining ‘bout proper bonding time. Don’t get much better than a scrap run. Well, as long as none of them bastards show up. I’ll be bringing more bombs this time ‘round, just in case. Still, should be good. And you and Roadie can do some catching up.”

Satya’s brow creases. “Roadhog is coming?”

“Well, yeah, ‘course he is. He’s gonna be our ride. Got one hell of a bike, y’know. I sure as hell ain’t walking all that way again, ‘specially not after today. Be nice just to sit back and peruse the street wares, as it were. Makes it easier.”

She lathers the soap down her navel and across her hips. “You are aware that motorcycles have limited seating, correct? How are the three of us supposed to fit comfortably?”

“Ah, that’s right, you ain’t seen her yet, have you? Real ripper, _and_ she’s got a sidecar. Plenty of room, love.” She doesn’t need to see his face to be sure he’s grinning. There is no question at all. It exudes through his inflections and performs pirouettes across consonant bridges. “If there’s not, you can always just have a sit on my lap. Should be fine. Roadhog’s a pretty good chauffeur. And no worries, I’ll make sure you don’t go flying off.”

Her heartbeat is a crescendo beneath the drum of the water, the cloth in her hand hesitating right before the juncture between her legs. The jarring thought of not only touching Junkrat but sitting in his _lap_ makes something inside of her twist with discomfort and unease—and a distinct warmth settles down where it most certainly shouldn’t. The crisp, vivid image of him with nothing but a towel clambers to the forefront of her mind: he’s smug, smirking, and absolutely drenched; he’s kissed with faint tan lines and freckled shoulders and scattered birth marks along the plane of his body; he’s glinting gold and hard muscle and hot fire and rich, molten amber.

Satya digs her nails into her thigh. Rerouting her train of thought is paramount. She torches the thought of him and imagines the architecture of Utopaea, of Vishkar’s gleaming halls; she focuses on the faces of fellow colleagues and of Sanjay and of all of the people staring back at her from Hyderabad; she immerses herself in the schematic of her newest teleporter and traces her mind over each sketch, line, and curve. Still, no matter what she does, the coiling heat is already there, welling down beneath, and there is nothing she can do about it.

Well, no. That’s incorrect.

There _is_ something she can do about it.

There is just absolutely no way she would ever consider it.

… right?

“Symmetra?”

Sharp pain jerks her out of her stupor, and it’s then that Satya realizes she’s pressed visible marks into her dark skin. Clenching her teeth, she grips the cloth and dips it down to wash amongst the thatch of hair and the sensitive heat between her legs. With her other hand, she rubs at her eyes and tries her best to shake off the feeling. The texture of the cloth doesn’t help.

“Yes?” she replies.

“Just making sure you’re still kicking,” he says from behind the wall. “Got awful quiet there. Thought I said something. Don’t gotta be jittery ‘bout Roadie, if that’s what it was. I know I said he can be right nasty, but he’s not so bad. I seen you get all bug-eyed. He wouldn’t hurt a hair on your pretty head.”

“I apologize,” she says. “I was thinking about the mission tomorrow evening. After what happened today, Talon’s involvement has me concerned.” It’s a lie, a terrible one, but she has no excuse for her behavior. Why is she so _weak_?

“Probably best, to be honest,” he says. “Gut’s always right, ain’t it? Something dodgy was going on. Least we know what it is now. Or got a better idea, anyway. Doomfist, right. Ridiculous name. Packs a real _punch_ , though, or so I’ve heard.” Junkrat succumbs to a fit of raucous laughter that resounds off the tiled washroom walls. Below, his toes curl in visible pleasure.

Gods, he’s insufferable. He’s insufferable and handsome and she can’t _stand_ it.

Clamping a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh of her own, crams all of her personal items into the tote before shutting off the water. Keeping a careful ear on the running stream from his stall, she tucks the curtain aside and leans out to snatch her towel off the outer benches. With the lingering burn that smoulders in her lower belly, she pats her arms and her chest and wrings out her thick hair with unprecedented haste. She can’t dry off fast enough; there is nothing in the world that could make her stay.

Satya steps out with her towel swathed close and starts to gather her clothes. Undergarments are slid on from the safety of the dry stall just to her right, and she shimmies into a clean blouse and loose slacks with as much alacrity as she can muster. When she starts to retrieve the case for her hard-light gauntlet, she spots Junkrat’s belongings scattered across the floor. Among the stitched trousers and the various packs and pouches and the little canteen and a rumpled pair of red undershorts, she spies the patchwork leather holster he’d used for the hard-light blade. It lies on the cold tile, empty and bereft.

_You ever throw a knife?_

She can’t believe he’d kept it so long. Whether he viewed it as decoration or as a memento of some kind, it ultimately served its purpose: it saved a life. Even if it wasn’t Junkrat’s.

It shouldn’t, but something plucks at the taut strings by her heart. It’s odd and knotting and foreign, and while it does nothing to combat the feeling that sears her lungs or the warmth that’s pooled far lower, it makes her take pause. Perhaps there is something that will make her stay.

As Junkrat steeps beneath the running water, Satya assembles the hard-light gauntlet around her left arm. It’s still filthy, still tinged with grime, still in desperate need of a polish, and she promises herself she will attend to it once she makes it back to the barracks, but something else must be done.

Pulling beaded blue wireframes between her fingers, she spins delicate geometric patterns into a shape she thinks he’ll find pleasantly familiar. It’s not too elegant, not too simple, and provides a proper balance. Its grip and pommel are more ornate than its predecessor, and she takes pleasure in its sleek design. Carefully, she leaves the new blade tucked in its sheath.

After she’s gathered the rest of her things between her arms, Satya makes for the washroom entrance. Wrangling herself together is proving a far more difficult task than she’d like, and she can only assume distance will assuage… this. Whatever _this_ is.

“Oi, Symmetra.”

Her entire body tenses up in a sudden snap. With a degree of hesitance, Satya glances over her shoulder to see Junkrat leaning out from the shower curtain, good hand gripping the side of the stall. Water soaks his hair and rivers curve down his neck and along the hard expanse of his chest. The lights above bring out the bronze from the Gibraltar sun that has been pressed into his shoulders, and although the soft freckles and jovial grin and the heat of his eyes are exactly what she’d imagined, all she can think to do is run.

“See you at dinner, yeah?” he says.

“Perhaps,” says Satya. “If Mercy deems you clean enough.”

Before he can edge in any sort of witty reply, she turns and leaves without another word. The distance between the washroom and the barracks is an incomprehensible blur, brimming with a whorl of tumult and frustration down by her bones. When she reaches her bed at last, she drops her belongings in a clatter and collapses to the sheets in a shivering heap.

This isn’t what she’d planned, she thinks.

This isn’t what she’d planned at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art that has been made for this chapter by SUCH AMAZING LOVELY PEOPLE on tumblr -
> 
> @the-art-of-nasty - [the shower](http://the-art-of-nasty.tumblr.com/post/148369248424/when-an-urge-strikes-the-only-reasonable-thing-to)


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the length here, both of the chapter itself and for the amount of time taken to churn it out. Past week's been rough, but made it through. c:

Being captured by an arms trafficking gang is not what Satya had envisioned for herself when she’d first arrived in Dorado.

Wrists and ankles bound, she lies on her side in the back of an abandoned warehouse. The lights are sparse and dimmed across its floor’s concrete horizon. One is anchored somewhere above her; its faulty wiring causes the bulb to flicker in patterned intervals of thirteen, thirteen, five, two. Countless crates of what she can only assume are illegal weapons climb up in rectangular columns around her, and the heavy scent of gunpowder permeates the musty air.

The familiar blue of her visor is missing. Her photon projector has been confiscated, and without full access to her hands, she cannot conjure any sort of device to help her escape. She is a mess; her hair is spilled in a black pool at her temple, her Vishkar uniform already rife with dirt and the fibrous dust flaking from cardboard cases. Her ribs are bruised—one of the skullfaced men had struck her with the flat of his boot, glowing bones cracked in a manic grin—and now it hurts to breathe.

Everything had been going so well before the ambush.

Under the guidance the supplemental research Winston had shared during the pre-mission brief, the team had been dispatched into the city in three separate groups: Reinhardt, Mercy, and Satya composed one; Tracer, Winston, and Mei formed another; and McCree and the pair of junkers forged the last. Each had been assigned a series of focal points throughout the city to investigate for signs of Jack Morrison. News reports of an elusive vigilante within the region had surfaced over the past two months, and had Winston strongly suspected Morrison’s involvement. As a result, the various leads had brought Satya’s party to less savory territories of Dorado’s quadrants.

Warm, humid midnight offered ample cover for traversing the empty streets. Reinhardt carried his massive hammer over the broad shoulder of his Crusader armor. Mercy trailed him with light steps, walking in the black void of his shadow beneath yellow streetlamps and the cooling clay of cobbled rooftops. Combat, while plausible, hadn’t been expected; an entourage of three vehicles carried a slew of giant crates, each adorned by dark men with neon bones.

Reinhardt’s barrier field was shattered under the thunderous roar of a gatling gun. Satya ducked away into the cover of a nearby building, and Mercy had little time to flee to safety. After two sentry turrets had been placed, she charged shots in the claw of her photon projector to provide Reinhardt with brief spouts of cover fire, but it wasn’t enough. Satya watched as he crushed the cargo of the final vehicle beneath the head of his hammer. The other two trucks maneuvered forward to protect the rest of the cases, their riders shouting in rapid Spanish— _don’t fuck with that guy, plow him over, who do these assholes think they are, watch it, hurry up, come on, move move move_ —and then more glowing skulls poured from the alleyway behind her.

Satya hadn’t even seen the flashbang.

“How are you holding up?” Mercy’s hushed voice wells up from somewhere behind her. She can’t pinpoint its exact source; the placement of the crates seems to obfuscate the way sound travels in this place.

“Rather well, considering our current situation.” Satya winces upon a much needed inhale. The ache in her chest is far too tender, and she regrets not spitting in the man’s face. “I suppose things might be worse.”

“This is true.” The rustle of movement can be heard. Mercy must be testing the knots of rope circled about her wrists. If they are anything like the ones that are cinched about her own, there will be no sliding free. “These bonds are… expertly done,” Mercy admits.

“They are. I expected less from fools like this.” Satya bites at the inside of her mouth and attempts to pry her hands apart, but they remain tightly wound behind her back. “It appears our options are limited. I assume they took your weapons as well?”

“They did. My sidearm is missing. I don’t know what they did to my staff.” She expels a frustrated sigh. “I hope they didn’t destroy it. It was quite difficult to engineer. And expensive. Torbjörn will be quite upset.”

Satya squints beneath the overhead light, counting the seconds as the electricity makes its way through more flickering circuits. She wonders if the others were aware of what happened, if Reinhardt was all right—she can’t remember anything past the blinding crack of thunder. Had he been subdued? Had he managed to escape and regroup with the others?

“We do not have any established communication links, do we?” she asks.

“Not in the Valkyrie, unfortunately,” says Mercy. “Only certain units are fully integrated with Gibraltar’s homegrown communication system. I believe all of that was uninstalled when Overwatch was disbanded. Mei or Winston may be able to reinstate it and provide everyone with working integrations, but I don’t know if there are other factors involved. Reinhardt’s armor had it enabled, though. Winston’s does, too. He must have heard the commotion from our end.”

“Or so we hope.” Satya laces her fingers together and attempts to focus on the familiar pressure. The seeping prickle of circulation loss climbs down her right arm, and she adjusts her shoulder to ease its position into something more favorable. “When we return—” Not _if_ , she thinks, not _if_ ; there is no _if_ here, “—I think I may be able to help with developing something for a comm link. My constructs will be able to provide everyone with a lightweight and customizable solution. I can adapt them to almost any sort of technology.”

“That might prove to be an interesting project.” She laughs, soft and quiet. “Perhaps we might at last be a cohesive team with a functional way to communicate. I wonder if there is a reason Winston hasn’t addressed it sooner. I did not think about it, but it’s possible it’s been kept local or offline to prevent others from discovering our efforts to revive Overwatch.”

“The Petras Act,” Satya supplies. Such legislation had been the final nail in the coffin for Overwatch, driving the once-great organization that had been tasked with keeping the world’s peace into a state of disbandment.

“Precisely,” says Mercy. “A somewhat inconvenient thorn.”

“An inconvenient and illegal thorn.” She scans the rows of surrounding crates ahead of her, attempting to peer through the pathways in hopes of spotting any of her captors. The skullmen seem to have made themselves scarce—although for what reason, she can’t imagine. “From Talon’s movements in Gibraltar, there is surely reason to suspect something now. Authorities must have been called from the havoc in the streets.”

“That may be possible. Jesse mentioned their activity has increased over the past several months, though. They have been appearing in key places around the world—apparently in search of Doomfist. Their appearance in Gibraltar may be written off as a part of such schemes.” Mercy makes a _tsk_ ing noise with her tongue against her teeth. “Well, that is our story, anyhow. We are simply independent agents and mercenaries participating in thwarting their attempts. Vigilantes, perhaps, although that seems like such a barbaric term to use for our purpose.”

Satya shuts her eyes. The light overhead has shifted into another pattern, and its inconsistency gnaws at the back of her mind. “Well, the legality of things is the least of our worries at the moment. We must find a way to escape and reach the others. I doubt they mean to keep us alive for much longer.”

“I find it strange we were captured to begin with,” says Mercy. “What would a group dedicated to arms trafficking want with captives?”

“I don’t know,” she replies, but she has an ill feeling it involves more than she would like to imagine.

An hour or two crawls by. Perhaps more. Or is it less? It’s difficult to tell the passage of time when there are no windows or any other visible signs of the world outside. There are only bulky wooden cases and heavy metal shelving and scattered sawdust and cold, hard concrete. The architecture above spans metal beams across stretches of open ceiling, housing pipes and bundled electrical wires and pouring down into thick steel support columns.

After a while, the plodding echo of footsteps sounds nearby. It’s not one, but several, and the heaviness suggests men of stronger builds. A sliver of dread slides in among the knots that twist in her belly as they emerge from a cluster of crates ahead. Four span out among the area; the dimness of the lights and the flickering of the one above sluices their dark skin in swatches of vibrant neon.

“ _Oye, chica, ¿hablas español?_ Or you speak English?” The foremost glows in vivid violet. With a shaved head, blunt brow, and squared jaws, he stares down in an unimpressed scowl.

“English,” she lies. Communicating in Spanish here will not benefit their current situation. Mercy will need to understand any conversation to be of help, and translating any back and forths may prove to be a cumbersome process. And—from what Satya has learned while traveling under Vishkar Corporation’s mighty banner—there is great advantage in feigning ignorance.

The scrawny mohawked skullman to the left snickers. Gold is sculpted down his face and over his forehead in brittle bones, his back pressed to a column of crates. “So, do we take them back to their friend? Or do we leave them here a while longer? He’s been asking about her, no?” His Spanish is quick and fluid, and it takes a moment for Satya to parse through the sentence structure. “Maybe he should see them before we turn him over. Teach him not to fuck with us.”

“They shouldn’t even be in our streets,” says the stocky skullman to the right. Beneath a sharp crew cut, green neon highlights his cheeks and forearms, and he presses his palms to the pommel of a barbed wire baseball bat resting by his feet. “I’ve had enough of these _heroes_ trying to prove they’re big shots. Should give the message that Los Muertos are here to stay. Dorado is ours.”

“Or kill them now.” The lanky skullman in the back is swathed in opulent orange, crooked teeth bared by his wicked smile. “Doesn’t matter. They’ll be dead anyway once the boss finds out. He’s not too kind to little heroes.”

“Shut up. I want to see something first.” Violet’s voice is brusque and husky, and when he steps forward and stoops down into a kneel in front of Satya, he ups an octave and swaps to accented English. “So, what brings you to Dorado? It’s pretty nice this time of year. Little hot, but the festivals are real nice. I’m guessing you’re not from around here. Vacation?”

“Business,” says Satya. Adrenaline pools down into her veins and webs out from her heart, and she can feel her pulse as it throbs at a steady pace in the column of her neck.

“I see,” says Violet. “And what is this business about?”

“We are only in search of an old friend,” says Mercy. Her tone is cool, calm, composed; stating nothing but truth and facts. “We have reason to believe he may be located here. It was not our intention to intrude upon your operations.”

“Yeah, well, you intruded. And knocked out a third of our latest shipment. That was very important, you know. Good job. Our client is going to be pissed.” Violet grunts as he raises himself to his feet. “Already have enough of us being chased down in our own alleys. We don’t need vacationers like you hanging around and interrupting things. Gets… complicated.”

“Gets messy,” says Gold, cracking at his knuckles with a broad grin. “Very messy.”

“ _Cállate_ , or I’ll bust your teeth in.” Violet turns back to Satya and assesses her with dark eyes and a thin frown. “You said you were looking for a friend. I happen to know a lot of friends here. In fact, I’m pretty sure we have one of your friends already.”

Satya opens her mouth to reply, but thinks better of it and closes it again. While she can only speculate on who might have been seized out of the other divided groups, there are only a handful of plausible answers. Only one other group had travelled this close to their route, and she finds it unlikely that McCree and the pair of junkers would have been so easily subdued. Then again, she and Mercy were cornered and Reinhardt was—she supposes—brought down by a gatling gun and miscellaneous crossfire. Under the gang’s sheer numbers, anyone else might have been made a captive.

“Who is it?” asks Mercy. “What do they look like?”

“Tall. Real tough guy with big muscles and white hair. Got a nasty scar, too. Maybe a few bruises here and there. He might have a black eye, but I’ve not been keeping track.”

Satya is incredulous at the description, and yet intensely relieved. They must have managed to damage Reinhardt’s power armor just enough to bring him down. She doesn’t know what other weapons might have been in the crates that were in mid-transport, but they must have packed a wallop in order to disable him.

“Reinhardt? How?” She can’t see Mercy’s face, but distress creeps at the outskirts of her voice. “You took him as well?”

“Let’s say we did,” says Violet. “Let’s say we’ve got him all locked up in the back because he broke the last three sets of shackles we tried to stick him in. Let’s say we had to rough him up a little to knock the fight out of him. And let’s say he’s been asking about you.”

Satya draws in a shaky breath. While this doesn’t bode well, it could mean two different things. One, Reinhardt’s armor might have been online long enough to forward some sort of communication to Winston. This would have let both Tracer and Mei know that something happened, and it might mean that help is already on its way. Two, if no communication had gone through, there is still a chance the Crusader might have enough power to transmit. Winston could then rally the others—providing Satya is able to find their current location—and send in a rescue entourage.

Craning her neck, she catches the man’s cool gaze. “Take us to him,” she says. “If you would. Please.”

“Ha, at least she’s got manners,” says Orange. His accent is thick, his voice thin and reedy. “Your friend isn’t so nice, _chica_. Maybe you should give him lessons.”

Violet glances to Green and Gold, and motions toward Satya with a jerk of his neck. “You two. Get ‘em up. Both of ‘em. Let’s go pay someone a visit. Maybe he’ll be more willing to cooperate.”

A switchblade in hand and his bat in the other, Green passes by and disappears somewhere behind her. She can hear the sound of faint sawing, which she attributes to the bonds around Mercy’s ankles, and after a few moments pass, the snap of rope giving way echoes throughout their corner of the warehouse. The gruff command of “c’mon, get up” shortly follows, and then soft sounds of Mercy being hoisted to her feet scuffs across cold concrete.

Gold approaches Satya and slides a knife out of his trouser pocket. Trepidation lines the sides of her lungs as he crouches by her feet and starts to ply at the coarse spindle of rope with the blade’s edge. The pressure constricting at her ankles starts to lessen with each stroke, and then melds away when the last spiraled fiber has been sliced. Gold tucks the knife away and hooks his arms beneath hers, wrenching her to her feet in a sudden arc. Her balance wavers as her equilibrium struggles to realign, but the man places a callused hand upon her shoulder and keeps her steady.

As they traverse the area, the first thing Satya notices is that the warehouse is quite large. They are still in Dorado, there is no question, but she starts to wonder what quadrant they’ve been relocated to. She scans the various piles of crates and other supplies lining the metal shelving for some sort of clue, but nothing seems to have proper labeling or helpful markings of any kind. Moreover, as they travel deeper into the warehouse, it becomes apparent that there are no available windows, which foils her idea of finding any landmarks that might distinguish their location.

This is becoming more dour by the minute.

When they reach what Satya assumes is the very back of the warehouse, she realizes that the ‘back’ actually refers to the series of back offices that, if the establishment weren’t defunct and repurposed by weapons traffickers, a shipping department might utilize for proper things like purchasing and receiving. There are average-sized rooms constructed into the white block walls, each with a reinforced door adorned by a squared glass window. All but one are dark with disuse, and a pale yellow light pours forth from the final office on the right. A feathery-haired skullman stands guard, his muscled body flush with a fierce, electric blue.

Violet pulls a keyring out of his shorts and uses one of the many silver slivers to unlock the door. Inside and to the left, there is an L-shaped counter stacked with piles of faded papers and an old monitor with dust clutched at its edges. Farther back in the office, straight across from the door, there looks to be a makeshift cell at the backmost corner—heavy bars of iron or steel line the area from floor to ceiling. Satya isn’t sure what use they might be, as their placement is haphazard and the architecture seems very weak; there is nothing to support each bar or to prevent them from being knocked aside with enough force. What sort of dim-witted criminals are running this place?

The cell itself isn’t what’s interesting, though. The contents of the cell surpass anything she could have imagined.

A man who decidedly isn’t Reinhardt lies within. His ankles and wrists have been shackled with heavy metal ringlets, and each has been chained to what seem to be railroad spikes that have punctured ivory-painted cinderblock. His uniform is an amalgam of black, blue, white, and a smidge of red, and has been thoroughly coated in a fine film of filth. His hair is stark, his brow crinkled in pain, and two prominent scars mar across the length of his grizzled face. The pale flesh surrounding his left eye has been purpled with the blush of a burnished bruise.

Beside her, Mercy pulls a sharp inhale. Satya thinks she swears in German, but it’s too low to catch.

“You have visitors,” says Violet. “Time to rise and shine, old man.”

Slowly, the man rolls onto his side with a hoarse grunt. The chains clink with his every movement. His eyes open, the crisp and clear cobalt of October skies, and he trains his focus beyond the bars. It flits from Satya to Violet to Green and Gold, and then to Mercy with a final leap. He pauses there, seeming stunned; his mouth opens in a red hollow and the cracking sound of a dry shout climbs out of his throat on corroding hinges.

“Angela.” He shudders in a deep breath, as if that single word had drained the entirety of the energy that pooled his shallow reserves. “Long time no see.”

Mercy does not reply. Satya glances past Green to see her biting at her lower lip with a dark, desperate ferocity. The blue of her eyes glistens with wetness, and her jaw is set and rigid. If her hands hadn’t been bound behind her, Satya is certain they would be clenched and pressing carved moons into the meat of her palms.

So, this is the fabled Jack Morrison.

“What a heartfelt reunion.” Gold makes a snorting noise to Satya’s left. Elbowing Green in the ribs, he suppresses a laugh and addresses him in lilting Spanish: “Ay, look, look, she is so _happy_ to see the old codger! You ever seen anyone so pale? Like a damn ghost.”

Green leans against the barbed wire baseball bat, seeming unimpressed. “More like she’s seen a ghost.” He turns to Violet and taps his arm with the back of his fist. “Something seems off here,” he intones, his voice rich and low. “She can’t be the one he was talking about. Doesn’t add up.”

“You’re being paranoid,” says Orange. He scratches at the auburn stubble cloaking his chin as he stares down at Morrison with a wrinkled nose. “We found them all right where he’d been sneaking around. There’s no way the blond girl isn’t who he meant. She knows him, man. It’s obvious. They’re all in together.”

“He said a woman. But then there’s these two, and then that armored powerhouse that fucked up our truck. Plus him, that’s four. How many more are there?” Green spits at his feet. “I don’t like this.”

Satya strains to parse the Spanish exchanges between the skullmen. It’s not difficult, but their accents and patterns of speech are somewhat different than those to which she’s accustomed. The compiler in her brain briefly stumbles over dropped consonants and slurred vowels before assigning the appropriate connotations, and while the momentary lag between stated words and comprehension is not significant, it is inconvenient.

To her left, Mercy stands in stoic, worrisome silence. Dampness wells at the corners of her eyes, and the muscles through her jaws stretch taut in her cheeks, her teeth clenched so very tight. A blanched pallor eschews the color from her face. Despite crude remarks, the skullmen are right: Mercy has witnessed bruised proof of the living dead, and he lies before her feet in a subdued heap as if Dorado’s slums had gnawed him up and spit him out just for her to see.

Mercy takes in a shivering breath. “Jack.”

“Hey.” Morrison attempts a smile, but something beneath his ribcage must have twinged in protest because it contorts into a wincing grimace.

“You’re injured.” Her voice is cool, calm, and yet the crease of her brow and the thinness of her mouth belie such threadbare composure. “You should be more careful.”

“I know. I try to be. Doesn’t always work out that way.” He shifts into what Satya assumes is a more comfortable position, maneuvering his shoulder so that it doesn’t crush his arm with his weight into the concrete. “Besides, being dead is supposed to relieve me from that kind of thing. Ghosts don’t get hurt. I feel ripped off.”

“Stubborn,” she breathes. “You stubborn, _stubborn_ man.”

“I’ve heard that before,” says Morrison, cracking a pained grin.

“ _Gott im Himmel_ , and you’ll hear it again. I will say it one thousand times and one thousand more. You are a stubborn man, Jack!”

“It’s good to see you, too,” he says.

Thin strands of wetness roll down the slopes of Mercy’s cheeks. “Switzerland wasn’t enough to kill you, was it?”

“Never was.” The twin scars that split his face stretch beneath the exertion of his smile. The bruise by his eye is too fresh. “You said it yourself. Stubborn. Hell if I’m staying dead after something like that.”

Slowly, Mercy sinks down to her knees. Green reaches to stop her, but Violet swats his hand away and hisses something Satya can’t quite hear. The Valkyrie’s wings seem to droop behind her as she curls inward on herself, and her arms tremble in a vain struggle against the strength of her bonds. Blond locks of hair curtain her face in a platinum swath.

“We were all at your funeral,” she says. “Everyone. Lena, Kimiko, Liao, Jesse, Torbjörn, Miembre, Winston… Genji was there, too. Reinhardt gave a wonderful speech. ‘He was our moral compass. Our inspiration. Our friend.’ That was at your memorial service.”

“Reinhardt always did have a way with words.”

“You _stubborn_ man,” she says.

“Five down, one thousand nine hundred and ninety-five to go.” His eyes are a looking glass held to a vast, cloudless skyscape. Exhaustion lurks at their edges; thunderheads and threatening threads of lightning coalesce just beyond the mirror. “At this rate, you might finish by Christmas.”

Mercy laughs. It’s soft, sad, brimming with hitched breath and suppressed tears. She exhales in a heavy burst, and then raises her gaze to the recumbent man upon the cold concrete. Despite the puffy red that sweeps beneath her eyes, relief seems etched into every curve, every contour, every corner. The stone that chiseled her face has broken into the arc of a fractured smile.

“I am so very glad.” The crowned halo of the Valkyrie glints gold under the pale yellow of the office. “Try to be more careful this time, Jack. I don’t want to visit another funeral.”

“I don’t plan on another one of those for a while,” he says. “Unfinished business.”

Violet leaves Mercy’s side and strides across the office to where Morrison lies. With the end of his boot, he brings his foot right into Morrison’s stomach. Satya flinches at the impact; his groan is weak and pained and barely enough to force into a shout for help. Peering past Violet’s tattooed shoulders, she tries to assess the severity of Morrison’s injuries: shiner, bruised or broken ribs, chaffed wrists, blunt trauma to the abdomen, and what looks to be a sprained ankle. She assumes Mercy has already taken stock of every ailment and knows the exact treatment for each, but her caduceus staff is missing and there are no medical supplies and the situation certainly does not present itself as being first-aid friendly.

“Your unfinished business is finished now,” says Violet, grinding his foot into Morrison’s belly. “We brought you your friend, just as you asked. It’s time to cough up.”

“Stop!” says Mercy, but Gold slugs a closed fist into her in the shoulder and barks a harsh, “ _¡Cállate, gringa!_ ”

Morrison doesn’t seem to have the strength to speak. He lies there, supine and gasping, eyes clamped shut and arms tensing beneath the clasped manacles. The wall where the chains have been bound seems to have suffered serious abuse; there are several jagged holes in the painted cinderblock from where things have been violently wrenched. Violet had mentioned Morrison breaking free from the past several imprisonments, and Satya wonders how such strength could stem from any mortal man.

When Violet hones in for another strike, Orange holds out a hand. “Hey, hey, hold up.”

“What?” Violet glares over his shoulder.

“Uh…” Orange licks his lips, glances toward the office door in an air of panic, and then switches to hurried Spanish. “I think something happened to Juan. He’s… he’s right outside. I saw him fall down about ten seconds ago. I—I don’t know if he’s dead, but he’s not getting up. He’s just… lying there. Still.”

Violet draws away from Morrison, blunt features contorting with hot fury. “ _What?_ ”

“I—I’m sorry, I didn’t see anything, nothing, just saw him hit the floor—”

“I’ll bet one of their friends followed us. I’ll bet you.” Green wrenches up his baseball bat and powers toward the door. “I knew there was something else. We should have put down that armored asshole while we had the chance. Run him straight over with the fucking tru—”

The skullman chokes. The bat slides out of his hand in a loud clatter and he slumps to his knees in a gelatinous heap, spilling backward to lie prone across the floor. Satya squints to see the thick yellow body of a dart in his neck; it punctures right where his jugular vein would thread down his throat. Green’s breathing has slowed considerably, and although his contorted countenance suggests a degree of pain, he looks to be… asleep?

Gold darts over and yanks the door shut in a fluid snap before planting his back against the safety of cold cinderblock. He grabs Satya by the arm and jerks her over out from the path of the window, and from whatever is beyond that holds line of sight. Violet follows suit, and Mercy scrambles to her feet to duck to the side just by Orange, who can’t seem to take his stare off the door.

“Shit,” says Gold, dark eyes fixed on the prostrate skullman. “What are we going to do now? We can’t even leave, man. How did they even get in this place?” His English is now jolted and staggering, his voice in a wavered timbre.

“They’re looking in here,” says Orange. His crooked teeth are clenched. “They have to be.”

“Well, they can look all they want, but they’re not getting in,” says Gold. “Fuck if I’m opening this thing.”

Violet pulls a small handgun out of a deep trouser pocket and ticks off its safety. With a stern scowl, he glances to Morrison and poises its mouth in his direction. “What did you do,” he seethes.

Over in the makeshift cell, Morrison grits his teeth and stares back at the aimed barrel with stormy eyes. “I didn’t do a damn thing,” he replies. “You have me chained up, remember?”

“Then why are two of my men on the floor?”

“Wrong place at the wrong time.”

Something pierces through the glass window, bursting it apart in a glittering shatter of jagged glass. Satya tenses at the noise, her heart rocketing up and into her throat, and she lurches back against the wall beside Mercy. Both Orange and Gold have coiled themselves into defensive stances, their respective gazes fixated on the open warehouse beyond the fragmented window. Darkness pools outside, and although nothing of note can be seen, the air of being watched is palpable.

It’s then that Satya notices Morrison is groaning on the floor.

“Jack?” Mercy makes to move forward, but Gold wrenches her back with a hand on her shoulder. “Jack, what happened? Are you all right? What’s wrong? Were you shot?”

Morrison sucks in a sharp breath of air between his teeth. His entire body has started to shake; his arms spasm and the tendons in his neck press up against his skin beneath his suit and his legs start to thrash. Satya can barely make out the thin shape of another dart, nestled right by his hairline—its ends are tipped in blue, its liquid draining deep into Morrison’s veins.

“ _Jack_ ,” says Mercy, steeped in panic, “Jack, god, what happened to you? Say something, please!”

A faint aura plumes around him. Something crackles down under the dregs of his voice, and then he rises up to his knees in a lightning arc. With a guttural roar, he wrangles himself together and jerks his arms outward from behind his back—splintering the shackles clamped around his wrists into sharded fragments of crinkled metal. Frenzied, he whips behind him and wrenches out the chains that tether his feet to the walls in a single pull. The clasps about his ankles fracture under his fingers. They bend apart as if composed of hot butter.

“What the fuck,” Orange shouts, but his voice snags down his throat when Morrison clears the room and cracks his jaw in a devastating right hook. The skullman crumples to the ground to join the other with a heavy thump.

Three gunshots pierce past Satya and rocket straight for Morrison. She clenches her jaws and winces upon their impact; two puncture his stomach and the other buries itself in the wall just behind. He staggers, one hand pressed to his abdomen, but his entire body still seems to course with unbridled energy.

“I’m fine, Angela.” His voice is coarse, low, wrought with encroaching exertion. His shoulders droop, but the rest of him remains sturdy. “Just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Another shot fires, and not from Violet. A golden dart protrudes from the side of Morrison’s neck; the plunger has already depressed and the liquid inside administered. He brings it between his thumb and forefinger, tugs it out, and tosses it to the floor. His posture has straightened, and his other hand falls away from the wounds at his stomach.

“I’m not going down that easily,” he says.

“What _are_ you,” breathes Gold between shallow inhales.

Morrison rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck with a palm against his chin. The blue of his eyes is cold, fierce, trained ahead toward the smoking firearm. His hands clench, the fabric of his gloves gripping tight, and he then sweeps a calculating gaze across the width of the room. It’s swift, subtle, but he pauses over Satya, over Mercy, and manages a slight nod.

“I’m a dead man walking.” He takes one step forward, air cracking with latent thunder. “And so are you.”

As he lunges across the room, Satya stamps on Gold’s foot with her heel. She digs all of her weight into the motion, crunching down over tendon and vein and bone, and she can feel Mercy shift somewhere on the outskirts of her vision as she brings her elbow right into the skullman’s stomach. He releases a strained cry of pain and throws a clumsy punch, but Satya sidesteps with ease and brings her knee straight into his groin.

“That is for kicking me,” she spits in harsh Spanish.

The realization in his eyes as he slumps to the floor is almost too sweet.

Meanwhile, Morrison has engaged Violet. The skullman squeezes off two more earsplitting gunshots, each sailing off to puncture the pale white of bare cinderblock walls. Jaws set, Morrison grips Violet’s hand with a bonebreaking force and twists the weapon away. It skitters across the ground with a series of metal clacks. Violet lunges with his other fist and opts for a sucker punch right in Morrison’s belly, but when the blow connects, all that’s earned is a low grunt between his lungs.

“Stand down,” he warns, clenching around Violet’s wrist.

“You’re fucking crazy,” says Violet. He thrashes about in Morrison’s grasp, but nothing yields. “You’re insane!”

Morrison clamps his other hand around the skullman’s neck. “Where is my weapon?”

“ _Hijo de puta_ , why would I tell you that? Like I’m actually going to—”

“I _said_ ,” he presses, digging his fingers into Violet’s throat, “where is my weapon?”

“I—I’m not going to fucking give—”

“All right. One last time.” Morrison lifts him from the ground, palm still fastened around the thick of his neck. “ _Where is my weapon?_ ”

Violet claws at his hand in attempt to get him to let go, but his efforts are in vain; Morrison remains steadfast, staring at the man’s reddening face, his grip tempered iron. Satya watches the struggle in silence, adrenaline pulling through her body in pumping strings and climbing up her windpipe in needled breaths. Beside her, Mercy stands with a cool and welded composure, her eyes drops of stilled water under the pallid yellow of the office lights above.

When the skullman begins to choke and spasm, Morrison drops him to the floor. Violet collapses in a violent spell of coughs and sputters, hands kneading at the skin of his neck to temper back the pain. With asphyxiation no longer an imminent threat, he deflates upon the chilled concrete and heaves in jagged inhales, his back swelling full with each one.

Morrison doesn’t seem concerned. As if this were merely another chore to tick off in his daily planner, he cracks his knuckles and turns his gaze to Mercy. “I need to find my weapon and my visor,” he says. “They took them both from me when they ganged up on me and dragged me here. I doubt we’ll be going very far without your gear, either. That should be our first priority. None of these scumbags happened to let anything slip, did they?”

“No, unfortunately.” Mercy makes another effort to tug apart her bonds. “In a warehouse full of illegal weaponry, I doubt they would simply leave them lying around. They must have a cache somewhere, or at least I assume. I also doubt we’ll be much use to you unless we can get these off.”

Satya glances down at the three other skullmen sprawled out on the floor. Two are out cold, and one murmurs soft moans of pain; he must have the sense to stay put. “One of them has a knife of some kind we might use. I find it difficult to believe criminals of their caliber would omit something so simple.”

Morrison steps past Violet. The immense strength and energy that had overcome his body seems to have rescinded. The suffusing aura of a crackling storm dissipates from over his shoulders and around his limbs; a weariness drags at his movements and sculpts the skin in insomniac smudges beneath the October blue of his eyes. With a fist, he draws the final dart out from the nape of his neck and tosses it to the floor. Whatever sort of drug had been pumped into its slim syringe must have run its course.

“Here, turn around.” He twirls two fingers in Satya’s direction. “I’ll get them for you.”

Satya does as she’s told, spinning about and allowing Morrison access to the tightly coiled strain of rope knotted around her wrists. A gentle tug tests its strength, and then the pressure of fingers pulls and begins to unwind the snaked constraints. It takes a minute or so of work, but the rope unfurls and falls away at last, leaving her to nurse at the chaffed skin about her right wrist.

As Morrison tends to Mercy, a sudden shift of movement hooks Satya’s attention. As she glances to the left, the prostrate form of Violet is crawling his way across the floor and toward the discarded firearm. Before she has the chance to bolt forward and halt his progress, a resounding shot cracks from the office door.

A dart plants itself right into the flesh of the skullman’s rump, and Violet shudders to a weary stop.

Stunned, Satya twists around to see a cloaked woman lowering her rifle in the open threshold. She _tsk_ s, knowing and amused, and draws back the hood of her cowl. She is thin, short of stature, with an enveloping beige coat two sizes too large. Her skin is a rich brown, and a peculiar black marks along beneath her left eye while the right remains obscured by the black cloth of a patch. A thin smile shapes her lips as she untucks her thick white braid of hair from out beneath her coat.

“Ah, such energy,” she remarks, and slings her rifle over her back in an elegant sweep. “Perhaps he should channel it into more useful things rather than joining some gang of ruffians.”

“About time you showed up.” Morrison grins at her as he manages the last of Mercy’s knots. “That was one hell of a dose, Ana. What did you put in that thing?”

“Oh, you know. Just a little extra oomph. When you didn’t show up to our agreed rendezvous, I assumed you would need it.” She slips a vial from within a pocket of her coat and holds it up between a thumb and forefinger. Electric blue liquid swirls within. “I’d say the nanoboost became a picoboost instead.”

“I’ll say. That was definitely some juice.” He groans as he kneads his fingers along his stomach. “I’m going to feel that in the morning.”

“I sure hope so. You are too reckless these days. We didn’t come here to meddle in local affairs, Jack. There are more pressing things at hand.” After pocketing the vial, she hooks her hands about her hips and offers Mercy a warm smile. “Well, well, now _there’s_ a face I didn’t think I would see. It’s been… years. Many, many years. How are you, Angela?”

“Ana Amari.” Mercy brings a palm over her mouth. Her brow is pinched together in poignant regard, and the blue of her eyes seems faint, drained, overwhelmed. “You were dead, too,” she murmurs between her fingers. “The both of you were dead. I don’t understand.”

“Aren’t you the one that always preached the wonders of modern medicine?” Ana thumbs up the eyepatch, revealing a swatch of scarred skin and a white orb of milky glass to fill what was lost. “My sniping eye may be gone, but the rest of me is still here. Somehow. It didn’t feel like it for a while, but I’m still here.”

Slowly, Mercy steps forward and locks her in a fierce embrace. “I have seen two old friends rise from the dead today,” she says, pressed into the fabric of Ana’s coat. “I don’t know what to feel.”

“I would say happy is a good start,” says Ana, “but I’ve had plenty of time to get used to the idea of being dead, so perhaps you should take that with a grain of salt.” She glances to Satya over Mercy’s shoulder, inspecting her with her remaining eye. It isn’t cold or suspicious, but carries a sense of intense curiosity. “Might I ask of your friend here?”

“Oh! Goodness, I apologize. How rude of me.” She dips back and extends a hand in Satya’s direction. “Jack, Ana, this is Symmetra. She is a brave and talented individual, and a very good teammate of mine.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you both,” says Satya. “I appreciate what you have done for us. I hate to think what might have happened if you hadn’t stepped in.”

“Not a problem,” says Morrison. “The credit should go to Ana, though. She’s saved me more times than I can count just within the past few months.”

“Oh, it is no trouble. Everyone needs somebody to watch their back. Jack does it rarely as it is!” Ana arches a thin white eyebrow at Mercy. “‘Teammate,’ though. Curious. Does that mean others are here as well?”

“There are. Well, some of them, at least.” She laces her fingers and appraises first Ana and then Morrison with a degree of hesitance. Her mouth is a drawn line, her shoulders back and her jaws set. “Winston has initiated a recall. We have answered.”

Satya watches as both Ana and Morrison share a prolonged look. There is shock, uncertainty; drops of fire and anticipation and conviction. Ana brings a hand to her rifle’s strap, and Morrison sucks in a deep inhale with clenched fists. While Satya isn’t under the illusion that the recall reached all of Overwatch’s old agents, she finds it surprising that two of the most crucial agents (or so she assumes) had somehow missed the memo.

“So, are you asking us?” says Morrison.

Something ghosts across Mercy’s face. “Well, I thought to, but that response doesn’t exactly grant the courage.”

“In the face of the Petras Act, too. I would call that courageous. And stupid. But courageous.” Ana rubs at her chin with a gloved hand. “That is definitely something to ask. Is that why you are here? You managed to find something on Jack, didn’t you?”

“No,” says Mercy. “We didn’t, but Talon did.”

Morrison frowns at the name. “That doesn’t surprise me. Not that they’ve been particularly secretive. Mondatta’s assassination spread like wildfire, and Doomfist was in the news across the world.”

“We could use a hand.” Mercy glances to Ana. “Or two.”

“Ana and I have been doing our own reconnaissance on Talon,” says Morrison. He stares down at the four skullmen sprawled out across the concrete floor. “But now might not be the time to discuss such sensitive information.”

“Perhaps you might return with us, then,” says Mercy. “I understand the recall is a lot to ask. I have no illusions that you would drop your own agendas, as the two of you are clearly involved in other operations. I understand all of that would take precedence. Still, I request that you come with us and meet the others. Please. At least for discussion?”

There is a tangible moment of silence. Ana and Morrison share another look, harsh blue against soft umber. Distant, fleeting glimpses of determination and contrition shape through their weathered features. Just before Mercy opens her mouth to continue, Ana and Morrison mirror a slight nod.

“All right. Fine. We’ll come with you.” Morrison offers Mercy a wan smile. “At least for discussion.”

The sound of a wracking explosion sounds across the length of the warehouse. The entire foundation shudders from the impact, shock rolling up through concrete, cinderblock, metal, and mortar, and Satya thinks she can catch the racket of heavy crates being displaced from their stacks in the aftermath. She darts over to the office door and peers out into the dim space beyond—there is a visible crack of light stretching across the warehouse floor. Dawn pours in through the obliterated walls.

“What the hell was that?” says Morrison, leaning over her. “That can’t be more of these guys, can it?”

“No, I think not.” Satya draws her hand down her face and sighs into her palm. “I have a good idea who it is, and it isn’t Los Muertos.”

“Friends of yours, by the sound of it.” Ana slips by Satya with light steps and pulls her rifle off her back. Shoving a clip of ammunition into its chamber, she raises her gaze toward the filtering sunlight. “I have a feeling they’re going to be swarmed here very soon. Los Muertos are quite territorial, and we happen to be cooped up in one of their biggest havens in Dorado.” She flashes a quick glance over her shoulder. “Let’s go give them a hand, shall we?”

Before anyone can respond, another resounding boom fissures through the warehouse’s architecture. It’s closer than the previous blast, somewhere far ahead and toward the left, but still a good distance away. If Satya squints, she thinks she can distinguish swirling bursts of smoke between thin shafts of faint sunshine and wooden crates.

Shouts clamor in retaliation. The heart-thrumming beat of gunfire rings clear across on the other side, and the bone deep drum of hurried footsteps sprawls out among the stacked wooden caches of weaponry. Satya can discern furious scraps of Spanish amidst the crescendo of noise— _what the fuck is happening, who are these guys, get the big one_ —and they’re drawing close. Pressing her hands together, she weaves the geometric figure of a sentry turret into being and begins to establish a small perimeter along the office doorways.

“We have visitors.” Ana whips down on one knee. She raises her rifle to her good eye and sets to aim between the towering columns. “Right across, coming in hot. Seven. Three have automatic rifles.” She pulls in a breath and whispers something in Arabic before squeezing the trigger.

Another quaking explosion sets off. This time, it erupts right nearby the strip of back offices. Satya clenches her teeth through the sound and squints through plumes of roiling stonedust. When she’s able to see again, the wall to the left outside of the office has been punched through in a jagged hole approximately seven feet high and four across. Charges had been placed there, there is no doubt, and she is almost positive who placed them.

The skullmen skid to a shuddering stop. Neon bones burn aglow in the shifting darkness split apart by slices of golden dawn. The one with the dart in his leg makes to aim for Ana, but a thick hook ropes out from the smoking opening in the building’s side. It catches him around the waist and wrangles him off to its mouth, and the harrowing crack of a shotgun meeting flesh pours down through Satya’s bones.

“We get the right place this time? Hard to tell, honestly. S’always a bunch of yabbering blokes on the other side.”

Straining, she glances past Morrison to see Junkrat and Roadhog looming in between the obliterated architecture of the once-wall. Junkrat kicks at the mangled body that was just dispatched, grenade launcher resting against the broad plane of his shoulder. A bulky RIP-tire has been fastened to the back of the grenade-hitched harness strapped about his chest, all chains and rubber and threatening spikes.

“Mn, nah, he don’t look no different to me,” says Junkrat, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “You sure this’s right? I mean, not like I mind blowing open another wall or nothing, but I only got so many charges, mate. Woulda brought more if I’d known we was gonna be doing proper demolition work.”

“Junkrat!” she calls, her heart a sharp hammering between her ribs.

Whirling about at the sound of his name, Junkrat climbs forward through the opening he’d forged. His shock of blond hair is tipped in black and fire, smoke smudged over his hands and across the jutting edge of his collarbone. When he catches her gaze through the shifting sun, his teeth light up in a gold-laced grin.

“Oi, oi, there you are!” he says, waggling his fingers in hearty salutation. “We been blowing up half the bloody block looking for you! Monkey’s having a right fit on the other side and the rest of the lot’s ‘bout got their necks up in these wankers. Oh, right, right, and speaking of—”

Junkrat glances over to the cluster of skullmen, a fiery glimmer in the amber of his eyes. The group has paused beneath the duress of Ana’s glowing scope or the looming colossus of Roadhog shimmying through the dusty maw with a blood-drenched hook. Hoarse shouts of fragmented Spanish pervade the air as Ana fires another shot; Roadhog lumbers forward and gathers the chain at his waist in a massive fist. The skullmen begin to backpedal, terror sculpting vibrant neon, firearms locked and aimed. As a shot squeezes off and rockets past Junkrat’s face, he puts his peg forward and fires a pair of cherry-red grenades with a satisfied laugh.

“Oh, you might wanna run, mate,” he calls, offering a dainty wave.

The detonation sends the skullmen scattering. Roadhog pursues with plodding steps and wrenches one backward with the arc of his hook. Red runs down the ink of his belly, and the mouth of his shotgun consumes the scream. Ana fires one final shot, catching a shoulder and sending a heap of neon pink down to the concrete in a poisoned spatter.

Satya turns away. Her stomach churns beneath her skin at the sight of buckshot pulp and seeping sanguine. This shouldn’t be necessary, she thinks; they didn’t come to Dorado for this. She has no sympathy for two-bit criminals running illegal gun shows and threatening local innocents, or even for clandestine agents with malicious intent against world peace, but there is no need for such pointless carnage. There can’t be. Not here.

Averting her eyes, she snatches a glimpse of Junkrat from the edges of her vision. He seems impossibly pleased as he lopes toward her and the others, all grins and highs and swagger. Ana greets him with a thin smile, and he dips down into a humble bow with his launcher tucked by his belly—“Don’t much like snipers, but reckon you ain’t so bad if you been keeping them two nice and safe”—before straightening and offering Mercy and Morrison a cheerful wave.

“So, these two are more of your teammates?” Morrison meets Mercy’s gaze with an arched brow.

“They are, yes,” she affirms. “I know they seem a little… rough around the edges, but rest assured, they are actually quite proficient.”

“Proficient.” Brow creased and scars pulled taut, Morrison doesn’t seem pleased. “What kind of team has Winston been running?”

“A decent one,” says Satya. “Although there is much room for improvement. I can think of several aspects in need of work.”

Her stare avoids the bodies and settles on both Ana and Junkrat as they make their way back to the group. Roadhog follows close behind, his hook fastened against the thick of his belt. Perhaps this shouldn’t bother her, she thinks. There must always be sacrifice, but it doesn’t make things less dour. Talon operatives stemming from a terrorist organization that concentrates on disruption of the world is one thing; a gang of felons and criminals is another. Both are wrong, and she is not so naïve to think that death would not accompany their efforts in some way, but it still scrapes at the underside of her skull. The reality is that everything will continue onward, regardless of her preference. It’s staggering; if Los Muertos had posed a threat, she thinks, Vishkar would have demolished them—just like the favelas in Rio.

Her fists tighten. The inferno of blazing buildings and cracked concrete and smoking debris curls up in a hulking mass behind her eyes. A soft face stares back at her among the trembling fires, burns carved down her cheek in a disfiguring flourish. The smell of singed flesh and stinging chemicals surrounds her in a suffocating veil.

Rio’s memory is not a pleasant one.

“Oi, where’s your gear?” Junkrat draws up in uneven steps and gestures to his face with his left hand, mimicking what she thinks to be her missing visor.

“It was taken,” she says, and brings her fingers to trace the metal of her gauntlet. Her heart is still thumping back behind her breastbone, twisting as an animal caught beneath a knife, and the pressure of her teeth against the side of her mouth is almost painful. “My weapon was taken as well. Both Mercy’s and Morrison’s belongings were confiscated. The ones who captured us were not particularly forthcoming in revealing their location.”

Roadhog pads up behind Junkrat with ponderous steps. He draws deep breaths through the black bulk of his mask, the sound a grating whisper over the distant echoes of gunfire. Gently, he taps Junkrat on the shoulder.

“Eh?” Junkrat cranes his neck. “What? What d’you want?”

With a heavy hand, Roadhog points toward the cracked opening in the warehouse wall.

“Oh. _Oh_. Right. Right, that’s right, almost forgot! Hell, where’d he go?” Junkrat twists about and lopes back over toward ruined cinderblock and shorn metal. Pawing a path halfway through, he leans outside and raises a hand to his mouth. “Oi! McCree! Cowboy, you still around? Coulda sworn you was right behin—oh. Ha, hey, there you are. What took you so long, mate?”

McCree stumbles past with a giant rucksack lugged over his shoulder. His serape is hiked up, his hat awry, and his expression shaped into something very, very perturbed. The sheer size of the bag is immense; its end reaches just by his knees, and from his skewed stature, Satya assumes it to be of a remarkable weight.

“Wouldn’t have been so long if _somebody_ had stayed and helped,” McCree grumbles, puffing forward with steady strides. When he glances up and sees both Ana and Morrison, he promptly drops his haul. “Holy hell. I can’t believe it. I mean, I expected Jack, but… god. Ana. You’re still kicking, too. I’ll be damned.” He swipes off his hat with a metal hand and starts to close the distance between himself and Ana. “We all thought you were dead, little lady.”

“I thought I was as well.” Ana stands on her tiptoes and immerses McCree in a hug. “It felt like it for a while. But there were other things to be done. Being dead let me do what I needed. It served its purpose.” She pulls back and turns to squint at his hat. “I see you still have that thing.”

“That I do, ma’am. Wherever I go, it goes, too.” Grinning, McCree settles it atop his head with a practiced flourish. He arches his eyebrows at her in palpable satisfaction. “Can’t go keeping a man from his hat.”

“I know. I’ve tried.” With a faint smirk, she kneels down to inspect the rucksack, the ends of her coat brushing the floor. “So, what did you boys bring with you? Seems quite heavy.”

“We mighta found a couple things,” says Junkrat. He prods at the body of the pack with his peg. “Had a whole bunch of charges rigged up ‘around the building. Found some room over ‘cross the way on the second blast. Had some interesting stuff inside.”

“By ‘we,’ he means me, and by ‘interesting stuff,’ he means what’s probably ya’ll’s gear, or at least some of the more valuable things they’ve swiped,” says McCree. He stoops down and unzips the pack. After a moment of sifting, he grips a hold of a particularly large rifle and hefts it out between the other items. “Mighty fine piece, I’d say. Looks kinda familiar, now that I got a good look. Is this what I think it is?”

“Yeah, it is,” affirms Morrison. He strides forward and places a gloved hand along its barrel, regarding it with a degree of fondness. “Pulse rifle. It was held over at Grand Mesa. Had to do some sneaking around for it.”

“Since when did you sneak around, Jack?” McCree surrenders the rifle with a smug grin. “I don’t remember nothing like that. You’ve gotten a little adventurous in your death, now, haven’t you?”

“A little. Being dead has its advantages.” Morrison tests the weapon’s weight in his arms. “This is more like it. Locked and loaded. Is my visor in there, too?”

Junkrat is on his haunches, digging through the rucksack’s varied contents. He tugs out an orange lensed mask-like apparatus out from among the clutter. “What, this thing?”

“That would be it.” He accepts it from Junkrat’s outstretched hand and fits it over his face with his palm. It snaps into the rest of the suit that climbs up his neck and jaws, and it somehow provides him a far more sobering look.

Below, Satya feels a light tap on her knee. When she glances down, Junkrat is staring up at her, the sleek blue and white construct of her visor held between the pads of his fingers.

“I think this’s yours, love,” he says, and gives it a playful wiggle.

She presses her lips together and accepts it with both hands. Taking the hem of her blouse, she wipes away smudged fingerprints and particles of dust from delicate azure and polished ivory. When she sets it over her head and down upon her ears, a sense of calm flutters down over her shoulders. The world ahead is enveloped in tranquil blue, and as the device comes online, the familiar display of Vishkar’s HUD materializes into view.

“Thank you,” she says, adjusting the fit with a tilt of her left hand. “I don’t suppose my weapon is in there, is it? Or will we have to go back?”

“That claw thing, right?” He makes a humming noise in his throat as he digs through the bag. “Well, there’s something like it, but it looks a bit banged up. Them lot musta busted it or something.”

“That is… unfortunate.” Satya watches him as he draws it out from within the pack. To her vicious distaste, it is quite apparent that someone hadn’t been careful with it—whether that was upon capture or retrieval, she can’t be certain. Its body has been dented to an extreme degree, and one of the flexible prongs has been bent in the wrong direction. “It seems I have some repairs to make.”

“Yeah. Nothing like a good project, though. Keeps busy and all, right? Shouldn’t be too bad. Don’t see it giving you no problems. Could probably just pop a whole new one out of nowhere, anyway.” He entertains a light chuckle as he hands it to her over the dusted sootscape of his shoulder.

“It is not quite that simple,” she says. “This is not one of my creations, but Vishkar’s. I have its schematics, of course, but repairing something that is not of your own design is an experience.”

“Experience, huh.” Junkrat presses his hands to his thighs and raises himself with a slight stagger. “Yeah, right, guess I can see that. Before I got me arm—well, no, was a couple arms ago, wasn’t it? No, right, before I got _this_ arm, had somebody else’s little rig they scrapped together. Was probably… dunno, sixteen? Seventeen? Hm. Mighta been. Ah, s’all a mess. Anyway, stuff’s normally a pain to repair, right, but trying to find a part to something you don’t know nothing ‘bout makes a piss poor time, lemme tell you.”

Junkrat scoops up his launcher with his prosthetic and flexes his fingers around its grip. With his teeth against his lip, he stares out across the warehouse, peering past columned crates and the faint glow of cooling bodies. His hair still smoulders beneath the dimmed warehouse lights and the thin slices of dawn pooling from his demolition efforts. Distant gunfire roils up between the concrete walls, and his shoulders tense in anticipation.

“Reckon we best get a move on,” he says.

“I agree.” Checking her sidearm at her hip, Mercy draws the length of the caduceus staff out of the pack. “Let’s regroup with Winston and the others so we can withdraw. There has been enough damage done here today, I think.”

“Not nearly enough, not for these lowlifes,” says Morrison, “but I won’t begrudge leaving after being kept in here for three damn days. Had enough of concrete.”

With McCree left to heft the now significantly less heavy rucksack, Morrison jogs ahead to take point with Ana trailing just behind. Mercy twists her staff between her fingers and hurries after them, the Valkyrie glinting beneath the soft light of the rising sun. Junkrat and Roadhog fall in behind her strides, lopsided and lumbering, and Satya follows the disproportionate pair of junkers with the dented projector at her hip.

Satya manages not five steps before the sound of a gunshot cracks behind her. She spins about to see Gold leaning against the office’s threshold, one hand clasped around Violet’s pistol while the other nurses the soreness between his legs. His teeth are bared in a furious snarl, the dark of his eyes quiet and fierce beneath yellow lamplight.

“You can’t cross us and just walk away,” he says, crunching Spanish words between the spaces of gritted teeth. “That bastard had information. We could have _used_ him. His bounty is worth _millions_.” Gold takes aim, the wiry plane of his arm wavering under the mountains of pain and exertion. “And you fucked us over.”

The heavy drum of footsteps clambers somewhere in her peripheral, but all she can focus on is the arc of gleaming turrets she’d set around the office doorway. Each is a sleek curved sphere, poised just upon the rough surface of the cinderblocks. He is not yet far enough out to trigger their inner motion sensors, but he is _close_.

“You chose your path,” she replies. Her heart thrums down beneath her skin and pumps between the bellows of her lungs. “I have done nothing to ruin you. You have done that yourself.”

Gold gnashes his teeth. He takes one step forward and squeezes the trigger.

The sound is curt, caustic, cacophonous. A moment passes, and when she realizes there is no pain, Satya opens her eyes to see Roadhog towering in front of her. His back shudders with each labored breath as he sucks it through his mask. Fists clenched, he holds his hook by the chain and begins to swing it in a threatening pendulum.

Alarmed, Satya bolts out from behind him, but he extends a large hand to bar her from proceeding. There is a red-welling puncture in the girth of his belly, wrought along the fire-inscribed intricacies of his tattoo, and yet he seems markedly unconcerned by its presence. The black gaze of the mask is focused on the collapsing skullman; he is gasping, thrashing, rendered immobile by the sentry turrets’ fire. Roadhog rumbles a husky grunt from his throat before coaxing her backward. Chaining his hook to his hip, he presses a palm over the injury and turns two steps to face her.

“Are you all right?” Satya frowns at the slow seeping down his stomach. Adrenaline continues to plume down through her body, staving off the pain blooming down along her ribs. Her pulse is a constant throb in her neck.

Roadhog nods. He exhales deeply through his mask, as if that sufficed as a verbal reply. His knot of hair gleams a pale, golden platinum under gentle sunrays pouring from the cracked warehouse wall. The rings and spikes adorning his hands glisten in blood and light, and the liquid sluicing his hook and dripping down the blue camouflage of his trousers. While his presence brings a small degree of comfort, his menacing countenance does little to assist.

“That was very commendable.” Swiftly, she weaves hexagonal sheaves of blue and white between her fingers. She splays them over across his belly, the hard-light melding to his skin and crawling upward toward the awaiting wound in a delicate shimmer. “You have my sincerest thanks. You did not have to do that for me, you know.”

The deep thrum of his laugh seems to argue otherwise.

“Oi! The hell happened?” Junkrat plods over with hasty steps, his brow knit in what looks to be concern. When he cranes his neck and catches sight of Gold’s crumpled body coupled with the trickling red from Roadhog’s stomach, his mouth settles into a thin, displeased line. “Aw, hell. You all right, mate? I swear, you big lug, you know you ain’t supposed to go ‘bout doing that! That’s my job, right, ‘specially ‘cause me and her got this thing going on. You just cost me the chance to even things out.”

Roadhog grunts under his mask, seeming amused. He waves Junkrat away and starts to lumber past with heavy steps, chain jingling with the movement of his shifting girth. He makes his way toward the rest of the group, who have since cleared most of the distance across the warehouse to the awaiting fray.

“Well, least we got a doc this time around. Not so much when we was at that bank.” Junkrat combs his fingers through singed blond and sighs. “Bloody heifer.”

“You chose a good friend,” says Satya. She keeps a steady gaze on Roadhog’s hulking form as he moves forward.

“Yeah?” The edge of Junkrat’s mouth curves into a faint smirk. “Yeah, suppose you’re right. I really know how to pick ‘em.”

Unbidden, coiling heat flushes up Satya’s neck. The image of him drenched and peering out from the shower curtain clambers up in her mind’s eye, and she can’t seem to quash it down. “I was referring to Roadhog,” she says.

“Right, right, sure,” he agrees. “He ain’t so bad, really. Even if he did nick a point from me. No worries, though. I’ll catch up. Promise. And if I don’t, well, reckon I owe you a little something, then, don’t I? Oh, you’ll love it. Got a lot in mind, y’know.” His laugh is lilting and mischievous and wicked, and it shouldn’t, it really shouldn’t, but it drops a tight shiver down the collection of her vertebrae.

Sporting a broad grin, Junkrat roams ahead to fetch Mercy, shouting, “Oi, Angel Wings!” over the swelling din.

Fingers pressing into the metal of her gauntlet, Satya draws a breath and follows with a hurried pace. Perhaps it’s only her interpretation, but in light of the current situation, Junkrat had somehow seemed far too disappointed at Roadhog’s involvement. While she assumes their team building exercise is as enjoyable for him as any other mission encounter, she can’t imagine he is really _that_ eager to earn another point.

They’re just points, after all. The prizes aren’t that important, whatever they are—not that she’s really thought about it. She’s sure he was just exaggerating when he’d said he had plenty of ideas in mind.

As Junkrat waves at Mercy from across the warehouse, something twists close to the knot of her pumping heart.

He _was_ just exaggerating. He was.

… right?


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Everybody likes to get taken for turns_   
>  _to see how bright the fire inside of us burns_   
>  _And everybody wants to get evil tonight_   
>  _[but all good devils masquerade under the **light**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dLrdSC9MVb4) _

Satya wakes with the glaring fires of Rio carved under her eyes.

She bolts upright in bed, perspiration clinging beneath her bedclothes and sticking to her temples. Sucking in a cool breath between her teeth, she draws back her damp hair in a fist and dabs at the sweat collecting down her hairline with the inside of her wrist. Black whorls of smoke smoulder up and stick to the insides of her lungs; glowing cinders trail down her windpipe and set each draw of oxygen hot with roiling flame.

_We are making the world a better place._

No matter how many times she chanted that mantra to herself, it did not change the fact that innocent people had perished beneath Vishkar’s quashing palm. It did not change the fact that Rio’s development was wrought through death, and it did not change the fact that its people were in uproar over change. Sanjay had approached her after the press conference, all smiles and pride and appropriate praise (not too much, never too much), and yet it did not change the fact that Symmetra, Vishkar’s most treasured agent and most competent employee, had willingly participated in such a vicious ordeal.

The fragile body of the little girl rises among billowing sheets of fire. Smoking debris halos the world around her and plumes upward toward the midnight skies in choking reminders. The soft plane of her face is marred with searing scars; her gaze is lost, pained, petrified. There will be no cure for her. Satya knows there is never a cure for the poor.

With her lifelines pressed against her lips, she pulls in another breath. Her pulse is a fluttering thing, small and frantic and cornered as the shapes of bestial shadows loom in, and it feels far too heavy in the shuddering hollow behind her breastbone. She had thought these nightmares long since banished, and yet here they are, bubbling up and out from the crushed place where she’d last forced them down and chained them tight.

Sanjay had crafted all of the perfect phrases and exquisite explanations to justify what had happened, and despite her better judgment, she wishes he were here now. He would tell her the same things he always had: he would tell her that this kind of sacrifice was necessary for the world to grow and flourish; he would tell her that the inhabitants of Rio knew no better and just did not _understand_ what sort of wonders Vishkar could provide them; he would tell her that the destruction and loss of life in the favelas was something so very small and insignificant in the scope of the grand schematic; he would tell her she should not be concerned because she really _was_ making the world a better place, one slew of city dregs at a time.

Sacrifice is necessary. To achieve the order portrayed in Vishkar’s vision, it is only logical that some things must be repurposed and rebuilt in a better image. Some things must be subjected to destruction so that they may rise from the ashes, renewed in wreathes of fire and perfection. Zenyatta said that order cannot exist without chaos, and Satya supposes he is right: Vishkar exacted chaos so that they could bring order into the world.

_Sacrifice is necessary._

That is what Sanjay would say. He would sit her down and tell her with warm brown eyes that what was done would benefit the greater good. He would tell her that championing such a noble cause is not always executed through scheduled meetings and earnest negotiations. He would tell her that, despite one’s greatest efforts, alternative methods are oftentimes required.

_You can’t expect them to understand this, Satya. You can’t. They do not look at the world the way we do. And that is why we do it for them._

Sacrifice is necessary. She knows. She really does. It doesn’t placate the regret that nests down beneath the beating chambers of her heart and it doesn’t provide grafts for the little girl’s burn scars so that she may heal. It doesn’t revive those who were caught in the blast radius; it doesn’t breathe life back into the vicious skullmen who splayed the length of the warehouse floor.

A line must be drawn, but she doesn’t know where. What constitutes as necessary sacrifice? Self-defense? Elimination of evils that would threaten the world’s tenuously fragile state of peace? The purge of those who would prevent peace, harmony, and order from being established?

Was Rio necessary? Is Talon? Is a warehouse full of criminals?

Satya slides out from between the sheets. Welling down the tightness in her throat with thick swallows, she draws up the blankets and tucks them beneath her pillow. After she nudges into the slippers by the foot of her bed, she takes pause by the heavy wood of her desk. While she knows she won’t need it, the desire for her own personal comfort overrides any need for practicality, and so she opens one of the lower drawers and pulls out the case for her hard-light gauntlet.

The darkness does little to deter her. She knows every snap, every groove, every curve, every joint; she knows its structure as intimately as any of her schematics, as one knows the presence of their own body, and she has no need of light to assemble it. Its pressure is pleasing and familiar and _safe_ , enough to slough off the lingering fingerprints the nightmare had imprinted upon her skull. The gauntlet’s architecture activates through tactile contact and kinetic energy, and its sapphire crystal enmeshed in the center of her palm emits a soft, calming light.

Satya pockets one of the empty smiling grenade shells from her nightstand on the way out.

The temptation to steal away to the workshop and continue the refinement of her teleporter is persistent. It is difficult to resist, but she knows if she gives in, she will be there until dawn. Winston had insisted upon an early morning meeting once everyone had been given the chance to rest and recuperate from extracting both Ana Amari and Jack Morrison, and she would rather not show up disgruntled and exhausted to something that might very well decide the future of Overwatch. On top of that, the fact that Junkrat would still be awake is highly likely. The possibility of him being present in the workshop staving off his fatigue is even more likely.

And as much as she does not want to admit it, Junkrat isn’t someone she can handle. Not now. Not like this.

The mess hall is cloaked in a cool, dim glow. The primary fluorescents have been switched off, and only two emergency lights remain. The tables and chairs are still arranged from the slapdash dinner that had been cobbled from various leftovers and ample servings of Torbjörn’s homemade bread. Satya passes the seat she had occupied hours beforehand, one that was removed enough from the group to prevent unnecessary social interaction and yet a close enough proximity should she have felt the need to participate. It seemed Mercy either had deemed Junkrat clean enough to join, or had acquiesced despite his healthy coat of soot; he and Roadhog had been three tables across from her, pointedly separate from the others but still within direct view. She had found herself absently staring more often than she would care to admit, and when she would glance up from her plate, every now and then she could have sworn she caught him staring back.

When Satya enters the kitchen, she is surprised to see that it is not empty. The twin halogens above the stovetop have been switched on, and Ana Amari stands among the clustered cabinets with her back against the counter. A pallid yellow illuminates the gentle brown of her skin, and her white braid is soaked in a warm, rich gold. Her bedclothes are loose, her lithe frame enshrouded by long sleeves and baggy trousers. A steaming mug of tea is clasped between her hands; she sips at it with her good eye half-closed and cast to the tile floor.

“Ah. Symmetra. What a surprise.” Her mouth takes upon a faint smile as her gaze glides upward. “I see I am not the only one with sleeping troubles. Tonight is a rather restless night, isn’t it?”

“It is, unfortunately,” Satya agrees, drawing up to the counter. “The day’s events were too exciting, I think. Finding sleep is difficult.”

“Isn’t it always? The older you are, the less you sleep, you know. Your body yearns for rest, and yet when you go to lie down, your bones ache and it feels like you’re on a slab of stone. Take it from an old lady.” Ana brings the mug to her lips and takes a slow sip of tea. “And then there are the dreams. Always so many dreams. I feel more exhausted waking up than I did going to sleep.”

Satya laces her fingers and regards Ana with a tentative stare. “Dreams?”

“Oh, yes,” says Ana. “Dreams upon dreams upon dreams. Nightmares, really. Well, some of them. Not all of them were so bad. But there were a few bad ones. Reoccurring. A price one must pay, I suppose. I thought my eye was enough, but it seems as though the world has other plans.”

“How long have they lingered?” The burning of Rio climbs up in the darkness behind her eyes. “Did they ever stop?”

“Mm, yes and no. Some stopped, but others started in their place. They have been with me since Overwatch. Before Overwatch. I was a sniper, if that was not already obvious—” She draws a finger down the patch that obscures her right eye, “—and I worked on a taskforce with Jack. And before you ask, yes, he was always this way. He could be careful when he wanted to, but he risked himself in favor of his team. A noble man. Ridiculous and stubborn, but noble.”

“I have gathered as such,” says Satya. “Mercy had several choice words for him, many of which were ‘stubborn.’ I lost count.”

“Ha, that does not surprise me. I imagine Angela was very forthright about it. She was always very blunt when it came to others’ injuries. Or, in this case, a false death.” Ana draws another sip, and then pops a hand over her mouth as she swallows. “Oh, where are my manners? Hanging around that man has made me too brusque. Here, would you like some tea? It isn’t any of the dingy sort that is kept in the cupboards here. It is a Koshary blend I purchased in Cairo during my last visit. It is light, but I will warn you, it has a bit of a tang.”

“I would appreciate it,” says Satya. “It has been a while since I have had a decent cup of tea. The kind that is included in the supply drops always seems stale.” She glances to the left, over toward the cabinet where the various drinks and shelf-stable coffee creamers are kept. “I suspect it is past its expiry date, but there is never anything printed on the box, so I cannot prove that.”

Ana places her mug on the counter before fetching the electric kettle off its base and taking it toward the sink. “I would bet money that it is expired,” she says, twisting the faucet. “Teas are only good for a few months. Even when Overwatch was in its prime, rarely did we receive _good_ rations. Of course, the boys would run down into town and get some meat from the local butcher shops and we’d gather some fruits and vegetables from the markets, but it was always such a pain to do. Everyone would spend their stipends on fresh things and pool them together for a handful of good meals each week. Well, when we weren’t being shipped off or bounced around the other watchpoints, that is.”

After the kettle has been filled, Ana carries it back over to the counter and sets it upon its circular metal base. She flicks the switch to turn it on, and then reaches over to where her cup awaits, soft steam unfurling from its contents. A small tin sits right beside it, the brilliant colored packaging adorned with stark Arabic text along its front. Ana thumbs up the lid and takes it in her hands.

“Here,” she says. “It has a very pleasant smell.”

Satya accepts and brings the opening against her nose. It has a relatively mild aroma, she notes, somewhat astringent; a black tea, most likely. She peers down inside to see coiled clusters of dark, desiccated leaves. There seem to be sparse wisps of other miscellaneous herbs shuffled into the blend, but she cannot pin a name to them.

“It is loose leaf,” says Ana. “The flavor is far better, I think. Better than the little bags you can buy at any old store.”

“I have had various loose leaf chais in Utopaea,” says Satya, taking in another breath of the tea’s scent. “There are many good tea shops in the lower city. They are one of the things I miss. Their blends of spices are truly exquisite. Anything else seems so lackluster in comparison.”

“Oh, another tea enthusiast?” Ana chuckles as she brings her mug back between her palms. “It will be good to talk with another who has proper taste. Do you know what kind of tea Reinhardt likes? Herbal. Can you believe that? _Herbal_. Utter blasphemy. The man is so sweet, but he wouldn’t know Assam from Oolong if they bit him on the nose.”

“I am rather fond of Darjeeling myself. Its lighter flavors are lovely.” Satya turns her gaze to the kettle; tiny transparent bubbles begin to collect along the water’s surface. “There is one particular shop I often visited when returning home from traveling for Vishkar. They had a perfect black Darjeeling. There were other chais, too, but that one was by far the most savory.”

“That must have been a treat,” says Ana. She takes a swallow and holds the mug beneath her chin. “I have always loved Koshary teas, but I have found that Earl Grey is not bad. I did not like it at first, to be honest. Lena would not take no for an answer when she put on the kettle in the mornings. For a while, all we received in our deliveries was Earl Grey.” She shrugs in reluctant defeat. “It had to grow on me, I suppose. Weeks upon weeks of nothing but Earl Grey wears you down after a while. I snuck out on more than one occasion to a tea shop or two in town just for a change of pace.”

Satya can’t help but smile. “That sounds utterly dismal.”

“It really was,” says Ana. “You never realize how much you appreciate a good tea until you’ve had Earl Grey stuffed in your cup for two months.”

When the water is brought to a full boil, Ana sets down her cup, flicks off the kettle switch, and sidesteps to the cabinet with the various assorted collections of cups and mugs. On her tiptoes, she plucks one down and places it upon the smooth white expanse of the stovetop. She then holds out her hand for the tin, and when Satya settles it into her palm, she guides a moderate amount of the leaves into the bottom of the mug.

“You may want a bit of sugar with this,” says Ana as she lifts up the kettle and begins to pour. “I use two teaspoons myself. This kind has a weaker sort of bite, but sugar tones it down a little further. I prefer cane sugar, but we are sadly lacking in that.”

“I will take your advice,” says Satya. “I’ve not had Koshary tea before.”

“It is very good. Best with a few mint leaves. It’s unfortunate we don’t have any sprigs sitting around, or else I’d use that.” She places the kettle back on its base and turns back to her own mug. “I missed it dearly when I was stationed here. There aren’t many decent shops, save one or two, and they definitely did not stock Koshary. Well, not that I would expect them to. Still, it was quite a long time spent here without anything other than Lena’s only preference.”

“I would imagine.” Satya folds her hands together over the counter and watches the liquid as the tea leaves begin to steep. “Might I ask how long ago you were stationed here?”

“Oh, let’s see. That was a decent chunk of time. Fifteen years ago, perhaps?” Ana thumbs at her chin as she squints across the darkened kitchen in thought. “Hm, no, fifteen is too long. Ten, I think. Yes, ten. That sounds right. I was stationed at a number of outposts, of course, but I always came back to Gibraltar after a year or two. A much shorter trip home than somewhere like Grand Mesa in North America. It made it easier to take care of Fareeha, too.”

“Fareeha?” She frowns. “A family member?”

“My daughter. She wanted so badly to join Overwatch as a child. She revered many of my colleagues as heroes.” Ana’s countenance softens, the worry lines in her face smoothing out into something soft and poignant. “Well, so did many other children, I suppose. For a long while, we _were_ quite the heroes. The Omnic Crisis was dealt with to the best of our abilities, and we managed to establish a tenuous peace. Not that our efforts lasted. With all of the tension in London and the continuing troubles in Russia, I have a feeling things may start to turn sour very soon. Another Omnic Crisis is just around the corner.”

Satya fetches a spoon out from one of the nearby drawers and gives the tea a gentle swirl. “I believe that is one of Winston’s goals in Overwatch’s revival,” she says. “Although I am starting to believe Talon may be at the root of it. Not only have they become more active within the past several months, just as McCree has said, they also sparked fierce outrage with Mondatta’s assassination at King’s Row. Who is to say they are not behind the altercations in Russia as well?”

“Anything is possible.” Ana broods behind her cup. “There was once a unit of Overwatch dedicated to eliminating them and tracking their movements, you know, but such efforts ultimately backfired. The agent in charge of the unit was murdered by his wife.”

“His _wife_?”

“Yes. It was an unfortunate situation. She was abducted by their operatives and subjected to some sort of… conditioning. I don’t know what it was, but it must have been a horrifying experience. In short, she became a sleeper agent for their cause, and after assassinating her husband in their name, she has been working with them ever since. I had a run in with her several years ago. It was…” Ana raises her hand to her eyepatch, mouth thinned into a frown. “She is the reason I must wear this. And the reason for the dreams, too, I imagine.”

Satya folds her hands around the warmth of her glass. “My sincerest condolences. That must have been a harrowing ordeal.”

“It was, in a way. It gave me a lot of time to reflect. The notches in my rifle were far too many.” She takes a long sip of tea, breathing in the smooth aroma. “I suppose that did not help my predicament with dreams in any way. When I was in Jack’s taskforce, I did what I was told and took the shots. They were heavy at first. It was a while until I could bear the weight. Of course, the longer I stayed, the heavier the weight became, but I grew stronger as well. After Amélie Lacroix, it became too much.”

“I understand. And no matter how much time passes, it is always going to be there. It always seems to crop up when least needed.” Satya coaxes the jar of sugar from next to the kettle and scoops two spoonfuls into the mug before giving it another stir. “How did you cope?”

Ana draws a long, steady breath. “Time,” she says. “A lot of time. And a lot of thinking. I did not kill because I wanted to; I killed because I had to. There were those who threatened my country, my family, my home. I took up a rifle because I wanted to defend them. I joined Overwatch because I wanted to bring a stop to the fighting. After Lacroix, I thought it best if I were to retire and hide from the world and its troubles, but I found that that wasn’t enough. Not for me. I could not sit idly while my country suffered. I could not allow terrorists and others with ill intent to harm those close to me.”

She brings the mug to her mouth and drains the rest of the drink. With her left eye half closed, she stares at the cool kitchen tile in stiff rumination. Her eyebrows are pinched, her craggy hands clamped tight to the ceramic of her cup. Thin tendons and dark veins press up beneath her skin.

“I am not here because I want to go to war,” she says. “I am here because I care for Jack. I care for Angela, Jesse, Torbjörn, Genji. I care for Reinhardt. I care for Fareeha. I want the best for all of them. I want them safe. And if participating in the resurrection of Overwatch will help keep them safe, then I will be here. I will do what I must. The burden is heavy, and it always will be, but if it means I can protect the ones I love, then I will bear the weight.”

Satya takes a slow sip, and lets the warmth coat her throat and pull down between her lungs. She imagines it purging back the midnight tendrils as it spreads within her chest, plying them apart and severing them from her ribs. She imagines the knotted heaviness bogged down beneath her sternum withering away under the sensation of heat, and she imagines the smoking debris of Rio melting down into coagulated pools of melded black, sloughing away with the coming rains.

Sacrifice is necessary. Would Sanjay have justified it this way? Would Sanjay have told her that Rio’s sacrifice was to protect the people from degenerate conditions? To protect them from violent neighborhoods, from starvation and thirst and poverty? Or would he have only seen the repurposed structures upon the project’s completion, shining and perfect and uniform, pristine columns of order brought into the city’s filthy slums?

 _Sacrifice is necessary_. _That is the price for regrowth and rebirth_.

Sanjay sits across from her on the sofa, his Vishkar uniform ironed and pressed, his dark eyes a well of the only world she’s ever known. He had been four years ahead of her at the academy, and had been her mentor when she’d emerged from its halls as a fledgling architech. She recognizes the squared lines of his jaws and the slopes of his high cheek bones and the broad shape of his nose. His smile is soft, kind, familiar, and yet there is something corroded and rotten that lurks down beneath its surface; a hidden bruise deep below that aches for an unknowing bite.

 _Harmony brings peace and order_. _Discord paves the path toward new futures._

Zenyatta hovers beside her, his shabby robes a brilliant gold under the sinking sunshine. The stark metal of his faceplate burns in fierce copper and the intricate prayer orbs that encircle the roping cords of his neck glimmer in rich auras of aurum and amethyst. The pillar of his body anchors her to the world, entrenching her feet in cool grass and pebbled dirt. His synthesized voice is calm, collected, and pours down into the hollow of her chest to suffuse glowing tranquility among the disjointed array of her components.

 _They are mirrored forces,_ he intones, _neither good nor evil, and one cannot exist without the other. There must be balance._

With a tight breath, Satya focuses on the warmth at the inside of her palm. The thought of Rio collects in the contours beneath the casing of her skull and kneads in as another protective film. The thought of Sanjay—her friend, her colleague, and the man who had issued the destruction of the favela—brings a wrenching twist down beneath her stomach. The thought of the little girl with the scorched skin and the watery eyes punctures a thin line by her heart.

There must be sacrifice, she thinks, and yet there must be _balance_. The path to peace and harmony is wrought with rubble, and she must build in its wake. She’d built through Vishkar, through its academy, through its teachings; she’d built through indecision and suffering and her own self-doubt. Now, she builds through the crackling remnants of Overwatch, a young and fragile thing, a mirror of herself when she’d left the closed walls of the academy and stepped into Vishkar’s world. She builds for the betterment of humanity, for thwarting terrorist operatives and for halting a second Omnic Crisis before it can begin.

If Ana can face her past deeds and carry the weight of those she’d killed in the name of protection and safety, perhaps Satya can as well.

“My, such a heavy topic for a restless night, don’t you think? Hardly the time for it, considering what yesterday brought. Too much excitement.” Ana sighs and places her mug on the countertop. “Perhaps we should discuss more lighthearted things. If nightmares are what trouble you, I doubt you will find much solace in my regrets.”

“That isn’t true,” says Satya. She swallows at the dark liquid within her cup and savors the gentle warmth that swathes down her middle. Its heat seeps into the textured pads of her fingers, and it provides a tactile sort of comfort. “I believe I have found more solace than you might think.”

“Is that so?” Ana’s brow furrows, seeming puzzled. “Well, that is a pleasant surprise, I suppose. I have always thought such things too dark before bed. Too gruesome. I feel they tend to summon nightmares rather than ward them away.”

“I imagine they would happen regardless of the topic of conversation,” says Satya. “My efforts always yield less than satisfactory results when it comes to dreams.”

Ana opens her mouth to reply, but the sound of footsteps causes her to take pause. Satya follows the path of her gaze toward the kitchen’s opening, the faint light of the halogens settling low and soft across tile floor and over shadowed appliances. It takes her a moment, but once they have approached a close enough proximity within the mess hall for her to discern the weight and cadence of each step, there is no denying their source.

What is he even doing here? she thinks, but she promptly drowns the thought in tea.

Junkrat lopes barefoot into the kitchen. He carries himself with a palpable exhaustion; his movements seem strained and slow, his posture hunched more than usual, and insomnia has left its touch beneath his eyes in slate crescents. He combs a hand through the wild and disheveled mess of his hair as he makes his way toward the refrigerator, a shabby forest green blanket shrouding the expanse of his shoulders and down well past his hips as a makeshift cloak. When he realizes that he’s not alone, he stops mid-stride across the floor and blinks several times as though he thought he had been entertaining illusions not two moments prior.

“Oh,” he says. His voice is low, bleary, and with a husky twinge that suggests he hasn’t spoken in several hours. “Right. Well, then. Wasn’t really expecting anybody here.”

“Neither were we.” Ana arches an appraising eyebrow at him. “Are you in your underwear?”

Junkrat shrugs. “I reckon so. Don’t feel too much of a breeze.”

She stifles a chuckle behind her hand. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“Well, hello to you, too, Nan,” he says, shouldering up a falling fold of the blanket. He glances to Satya and offers a grin. “Symmetra. Evening. Or morning.”

“Junkrat,” she replies. “Morning, I suspect.”

Junkrat continues his voyage to the refrigerator and pries the great chrome door open with a metal hand. The light from within is blinding; he squeezes his eyes shut, draping a portion of the blanket before him as a shield with a thin grunt of displeasure. Satya brings the pristine white of her gauntlet over her eyes to allow her vision a chance to adjust, although she has no trouble discerning the lean muscle that shapes his thighs beneath the glare.

“So, why’re you two up and about? Midnight adventuring?” Junkrat squints as he lowers the cover and begins to sift through the various leftover tubs and packaged goods that line the refrigerator shelves with a stooped stature. His face appears to have been lightly scrubbed since dinner, but there are still soft streaks of soot that he’d missed. “I’ll admit, kitchen’s a right good place to start.”

“We are having tea,” says Ana. She gestures to her empty mug. “Would you care to join us?”

Junkrat’s height puts him at an unfortunate disadvantage, and so he sinks down to his haunches and pulls out a particularly large translucent container. He tugs off its lid with two fingers and takes a light sniff. “Depends,” he says, seeming unimpressed with the tub’s contents. “What kinda brew you got?”

“It is a Koshary blend from my home country,” says Ana. “It is fairly light, considering. It is loose leaf, though, not a tea bag, so perhaps a bit stronger than what you might be used to.”

Junkrat presses the lid back down and deposits the plastic bin back into the refrigerator before giving his scalp a thoughtful scratch. “Yeah. All right, sure. Why not. I’ll give it a go.”

“If you are having trouble sleeping as well, it shouldn’t do much harm. In fact, the comfort may help. That is why I decided to come here. I think it is far better than tossing and turning all night.” Ana lifts the kettle off its base to refill it by the sink.

Seeming dissatisfied with the array of leftovers, Junkrat readjusts his blanket and rises to his feet with a slight wobble. He tips the refrigerator door shut with the side of his peg, and with a slight shiver (he _is_ wearing underwear, right?), he makes his way over next to Satya. The scent of him engulfs her in a heady rush as he draws close; there is the faint tang of gunpowder and the astringent smoke of chemical residue encompassed by lingering sweat and exertion, but beneath it all in a threading line is a soft mellow something that is _him_ —it has to be, she thinks, there is no other explanation—and it slinks back through her senses and unfurls in an enveloping swath.

“Feel like I been seeing you up in the early hours more and more. And you was doing a whole lot of commenting on my sleeping, too.” Junkrat leans against the counter beside her, the edge supporting the small of his back. “Don’t got much room to talk, now, do you?”

“This is a unique occasion.” Or so she hopes. She would rather not continue to wake up at two o’clock in the morning to have tea with Junkrat. “Your habits are habits. There is a clear difference between a one-time occurrence and repeated behaviors on a daily basis.”

“Right. Well, having tea at near three probably does count as unique. I’ll be generous and give you this one. Next one, though.” He smiles at her, amusement cracking through weighty fatigue and drowsy eyes. “You ain’t getting off so easy then.”

Ana returns from the sink with the kettle filled with enough for another cup. Stretching by Satya, she places it back over its base and flips the switch with her thumb. She then maneuvers toward the cupboard, pops it open, and reaches up on the tips of her toes to grab another mug.

“Have you had loose leaf before?” she asks, placing the cup over the smooth expanse of the stovetop.

“Mm, don’t think so,” says Junkrat. “Don’t really drink much of the warm stuff, to be honest.”

“Such a shame. You don’t know what you are missing. It has a much richer flavor. Well, if you like that sort of thing. Some do not.” She folds her arms as she crosses her feet and leans her lower back to the counter. “So, Junkrat, was it? How peculiar. I have heard many a name in my years of service, but that one is definitely unique.”

Junkrat sidles his jaws into a frown, displeasure sloping down his brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t mean offense by it,” says Ana. “Some of the people I have worked with in the past have chosen strange codenames and monikers, but Junkrat just seems like a very… unusual thing to call oneself.”

“Oi, I don’t go saying stuff like that ‘bout your name.” Junkrat maneuvers his blanket closer around his collarbone, and he makes an odd noise that resembles a splice between a sniff and a growl. “‘Sides, s’not like it’s my real one or anything. Mum and Da had sense. S’just what I go by. Junkers all got names like that.”

“Well, I should hope it isn’t your real name. I think that would be markedly worse.” Ana smothers a laugh behind her knuckles. “I don’t know whether that would say more about you or your parents if that were the case.”

“Not so cheery at night, are you?” Glancing to Satya, he nudges her with a blanket covered elbow. “You hearing this? Cyclops nan’s got some bite. Reckon she woulda had falses or something from the look of it.”

Satya sighs. “Junkrat, be nice.”

“I _was_ being nice. She’s the one getting all judgmental and bitey, not me.”

“Oh, I’ve heard far worse than accusations of false teeth. You will have to get a bit more creative than that.” With an amused smile, Ana ropes her braid around her finger and slides the looped tie off the very end. She draws lithe fingers through layers of soft silver to comb them free. “You know, I worked with a group of particularly mouthy men for many years. A boy insinuating that I have false teeth doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface.”

Junkrat wrinkles his nose in distaste. “Boy?”

Ana threads her hand through the remainder of the braid. Her hair becomes a delicate plume of white-gold before it falls down past her neck in twisting waves. “Young man,” she corrects, providing him a pointed look. “Is that better?”

“Mn. Maybe.”

Pressing her tongue between her teeth, Ana turns to the tea tin and scoops a single cup’s worth into the awaiting mug. Afterward, she fetches the kettle of bubbling water off the base and pours it in overtop. With the backs of her fingers, she scoots it over toward Junkrat behind Satya’s back.

“Here,” she says, and returns the kettle to its proper place. “I would say be a good young man and drink your tea, but you will need to wait a few minutes unless you want hot water and a burnt mouth. So, be a good young man and drink it after it’s had time to steep and cool.”

“I know how tea works,” says Junkrat. His prosthetic slips behind Satya to coax the mug closer. “Not like I never had any before.”

“Just making sure, dear,” she says. “You can never be too careful.”

A knowing grin pursing her lips, Ana takes her glass over to the sink. She twists on the tap and rinses out the tea leaf remnants, pouring out tinged liquid after three swirls beneath the running water. She takes a soapy sponge to the inside of the cup, and once she is satisfied, she gives it another rinse and then places it on the drying rack beside the lip of the sink.

“Are you going to turn in?” asks Satya.

“Unfortunately, yes. I think it is about time I tried to sleep. I imagine it is late enough already, and it seems like we have a busy day of ‘discussion’ tomorrow. After all, I wouldn’t want to miss that. Begrudging Jack the chance to slip back into his old role and lecture us on proper procedures again is probably a bad idea.”

Ana places the metal lid back overtop the tea tin before pushing it toward the back of the counter. Satya watches as she starts to make her way toward the kitchen entrance, but she slows her steps and pauses with something that seems like uncertainty. She tucks stark white behind her ear and regards Satya with the cool brown of her left eye.

“Jack will stay, you know. He has an agenda of his own he wishes to pursue, but… I can’t see him leaving. Not like this.  Not with the world in its current state.” She rubs absently at her wrist, working the skin and tendons as if she suffered arthritis climbing through the length of her hand. “That man will go to any lengths to protect what he thinks should be protected. I was not present for his funeral, but I saw the headlines. The world truly lost someone great that day. If there were anyone death did not suit, it would be Jack Morrison.”

“I do not doubt it.” Satya remembers the potent storm that wreathed Morrison’s body as he wrenched through his bonds and systematically subdued their captors; she remembers the cold fierceness of his features, the ferocity that had consumed him, and yet the gentleness he showed both her and Mercy. “He seems like an honorable man.”

“Honorable, indeed.” Ana gives a light wave as she makes for the entrance once more. “Enjoy the tea. Goodnight to the both of you. I wish you pleasant dreams.”

“You as well,” says Satya. “I will see you in the morning.”

“G’night, Nan.” Junkrat returns the wave with wiggling fingers.

Ana’s departure is followed by two minutes of awkward silence. In these two minutes, Satya comes to realize two specific things. The first is that Junkrat is less than a foot away, reclining right beside her with a nonchalant lean. The second is that out of all of the available space in the outpost’s ample kitchen, Junkrat chose this particular spot. There are plenty of countertops and cabinets and cupboards, and there is even a small island in the center for miscellaneous meal preparation he could have shimmied up against. Instead, he slinked up to her left and planted himself quite firmly between her and the tins full of Mercy’s chocolate cookies.

Satya takes a deep drink from her mug in hopes of fending off the anxious prickle that coats down the length of her spine. While the warmth lends a thin tendril of comfort, it does little to assuage any of the heated churning down along her ribs or the rigid tightening of her neck and shoulders. His closeness should not _cause_ this, she thinks, and a part of her is furious because his proximity had not truly registered until Ana left.

She can’t stay here. She can’t.

“We should sleep as well.” It takes more effort than she’d like to smooth the inflection of her voice into something confident and steady. She is not going to let this affect her. She’s not. “It will be an early morning for all of us, and it is best we are well rested. I imagine Winston’s gathering will prove to be particularly taxing.”

“Yeah, probably. Not a bad idea.” Junkrat brings his own mug up for a drink. When he takes a swallow, he glances down with arched eyebrows at the tea in brief yet surprised approval. “Reckon well rested went out the window ‘bout five hours ago, though.”

A laugh arises in spite of herself, and she wishes she could shove it back down again. “You’re not wrong, I suppose.”

“When am I ever wrong?” He prods her with the metal of his elbow and offers a contagious grin.

“I can think of quite a few occasions.” This is terrible. She knows she needs to extricate herself from this situation, but his presence is too near, too warm, and somehow an aching sort of pleasant.

“Yeah? All right. Go ahead.” The tone of his voice is light, affectionate, teasing. “Name two.”

Satya opens her mouth to reply. The entire amount of time he’s spent here has been completely and utterly wrong, but she can’t say that. The way he’s demolished every possible wall she’s managed to conjure is wrong, too, but she can’t say that, either. It takes her a moment or three, but she eventually realizes that beyond her personal feelings about him and his behavior, her mind has managed to scour itself of any material she might use as a rebuttal.

A part of her panics. She can’t seem to think of any examples, and the more she dwells on it, the more it becomes apparent that not only has Junkrat _not_ been wrong (how is that even possible?), Junkrat has been right, and right about _too many_ things. He was right about her burdening herself with retaining unity among the team, he was right about her agreement to his suggested team building exercise, he was right about their tentative friendship, he was right about her safety when launching to Gibraltar’s rooftops, he was right that Talon was after a treasure of all things—and, as of two seconds ago, he was right about _being wrong_.

Satya glances to her left. Junkrat has his right elbow against the counter, his good hand clasped around his tea mug. The threadbare blanket has parted down his chest and tucks in at his sides, leaving the hard plane of his belly bare beneath the warm light of the halogens. His hips are cut and rigid, the sloping ‘v’ adorned by a soft trail of blond hair that dips down beneath the snug fit of navy undershorts.

The warmth from the tea somehow seems too hot between her hands. An ache draws through the spaces of her lungs—when had she been holding her breath?—and she succumbs to a full and steady inhale in attempt to stopper the skyrocketing beat of her heart.

“Awful quiet there. What’s the matter, love?” Junkrat’s mouth shapes into a wicked smile as he laughs, everything tempered with a smug, satisfied lilt. “Rat got your tongue?”

“Be quiet,” she says, but it does nothing to deter him.

“Oh, I knew it,” he says. “See? Never wrong. Even Miss Order admits it.”

“I admit no such thing,” she insists. “And I will have you know that you have had your fair share of terrible ideas.”

“Ah, but not _wrong_ ideas, which is the deciding factor.” He leans downward, thick eyebrows raised and his lips sporting an insufferable smirk. “Don’t matter if they’re terrible. Could be the worst bloody ideas, but as long as everything works out and we’re up on top, won’t matter none.”

“Regardless, that doesn’t negate the fact that blowing open several walls in a warehouse just to see what was inside was a terrible idea.”

“Hey, I was doing that for you, y’know. You and Mercy. The ape said he didn’t care what it took to get the both of you back, so I blew a couple walls in and had myself a quick look around. Everything was just fine. Had no problems. No worries, right?”

“That isn’t the point. What if you had been ambushed outside? What if you had drawn unnecessary attention and had others attack you?” Satya squeezes her eyes shut and tries not to think about the gunfire, the lingering scent of gunpowder, the glowing skin of the Los Muertos gang members alight in brilliant neon beneath dim lights and soaking sun. “I find your methods to be highly dangerous and disorganized.”

Junkrat cocks his head and takes another sip. “Well, my ‘highly dangerous and disorganized’ methods found you. Found Angel Wings, Nan, and Scarface as well. So I think it went pretty good. ‘Sides, even if we hadn’t run into you, I reckon you lot woulda been all right. They got you, after all.”

Satya’s grip around her glass tightens. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means what it sounds like,” he says with a shrug. “They got you. I mean, you saved my neck before. Three times now. Saved Snowball, saved the scraphead bot. And saved the whole bloody team with them gizmos of yours. You might be some pretty suit from Vish-whatever, but you sure as hell don’t act like one. None I ever met.”

Slowly, Satya sets down the mug on the countertop. She traces her metal knuckles with the pads of her fingers, and she bites at the flesh of her tongue. “And how exactly is a ‘suit’ supposed to act?”

“Well… not like you. Not _saving_ anybody. They don’t do none of that. Too good for it. Bunch of swindling bludgers that got no eye for nothing but themselves. Last one set me up. Said he had a job for me, right, but was his own bots he sent me to blow up. Bloody bastard. Had to do a bit of squaring off with him.” Glaring at the ceiling as if it held the face of his previous employer, Junkrat knocks back a gulp of tea. “Hah. Not you, though. Nothing like that. Right from the start, first little outing, you stitched me up and hauled my arse back to Mercy so I wouldn’t have all my insides falling out. I mean… hell. If that ain’t something, I don’t know what is.”

“You are part of the team.” Another mantra, she realizes. Perhaps if she recites it enough, it will hold more truth than the last. “It was my duty to ensure you survived.”

“Right. Sure. That’s true. Still, any other suit’d just left me bleeding. S’happened before, and I thought for sure it’d happen again with prim and proper Symmetra. But you went and used your glowy hand tricks on me, and now here I am, all my insides still in and me still breathing.” He stares down at her, appraising, his forehead rumpled and the amber of his eyes something soft and malleable and burning. “What you doing with their shonky lot, anyway? You ain’t like them.”

Satya finds that a foreign tightness has constricted about her throat. A twisting knot lodges down somewhere in the column of her windpipe, and any attempts to flush her vocal cords results in silence. A part of her mind has gone offline; there is nothing but the writhing slums of Hyderabad and smudged faces and suffocating crowds and the distorted blur of faces that might have belonged to the parents she once had.

Vishkar rescued me, she doesn’t say.

Vishkar gave me purpose, she doesn’t say.

Vishkar taught me everything I know, she doesn’t say.

Vishkar took me from filth and squalor and poverty and provided me with a future I never would have imagined, she doesn’t say—

And it hurts.

Sanjay’s smile follows her in the darkness. It is fond and benevolent and inexplicably rotten, and he reaches out to touch her hand. His skin is smooth, soft, unblemished, and he guides her toward the grand doors of one of Vishkar’s conference rooms. Superiors lie in wait beyond sheets of hard-light, and her heart has settled in the back of her mouth.

 _Celebration is in order_ , he says; _we have successfully completed another project, Satya, and it is all thanks to you._

“I owe them,” she says at last.

Junkrat does not seem fazed. Tilting his glass back and forth in a gradual rhythm, he works his jaws in thought. “Got you, too, then? Well, reckon that can be fixed. How much you in for?”

Satya pauses a moment to parse the question. “What?”

“I mean, how much you owe ‘em? Probably some ridiculous amount, I expect. They give you some loan or something? Pay off something or somebody for you, then turn ‘round and go asking for it all?”

“I… well, I suppose that’s one way to look at it.” Satya traces the crystal in the plane of her left palm, hoping the repetitive gestures will placate the spurring of her heartrate. “But I do not owe them anything tangible. This does not concern money. In fact, it doesn’t concern anything that any sort of hard currency could possibly repay. I am indebted to them.”

Junkrat frowns in bewilderment. “I don’t get it.”

“I don’t expect you to.” She expels a sigh and rubs at her eyes with the heel of her palm. “It is of a highly personal matter, and I don’t feel comfortable discussing it further.”

“Oh,” says Junkrat. He sets his mug aside and hunches inward, as if contrite. “Right. Well, sure. Don’t mean to go ruffling feathers or nothing. S’all right.”

Satya takes her cup to the sink in silence and pours the remaining tea down the drain. After a quick scrub and rinse, she places it next to Ana’s on the drying rack. A sliver of her thinks to return to the space she’d held at Junkrat’s side, but she squelches it beneath the cold practicality of other matters: namely, sleep.

She does not need to be distracted by him. She does not need to be distracted by him or his mannerisms or his body, and she does not need to be distracted by Sanjay or Vishkar or Rio. She needs to reclaim cool composure, internalize it, and focus on the day to come.

Before she can exit the kitchen, Junkrat’s voice makes her take pause.

“Hey, wait.”

Satya turns on the ball of her foot to face him. His good hand tangles through his hair as he gazes at her, his posture now straight and rigid. She thinks he seems somehow sullen, but perhaps that is the work of the pallid glow from the twin halogens poised over the stove. It’s then that she realizes her nails are embedded into her right palm, and she consciously lessens the pressure of her fist.

“What is it?” she asks.

“You’re… you’re still up for the scrap run, right?” His metal hand climbs up the back of his neck, scratching at his hairline and behind his ear. “You owe me half an engine, y’know.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” she replies. “I still plan on attending. For the tea shop, if anything.”

“Good.” A faint smile tucks at the corner of his mouth, soft light filtering over the dappled freckles on his cheeks. Is that relief? “Right, well, Roadie wanted to know when you was thinking. He’s gotta get the bike ready and all. Been working on her for a while in the hangar, and would probably be best if he knew when to have her last bits all fixed up. Timing and all that. He works better on a deadline.”

It takes Satya a moment to sift through her thoughts. She recalls her visit with Chana before the ordeal with Talon down in Gibraltar’s streets, and the special fabric she’d promised to pick up. It would benefit her the most if she could convince the pair of junkers to take her down to the shop, retrieve her order, and then tag along with whatever Junkrat had intended. Perhaps she should purchase some sort of tea for Ana toward the end.

“Friday,” she says. “I have an errand that must be taken care of in town that morning. As long as that is completed, I will be available for… scrapping.”

“So, uh, what time we talking here?”

Junkrat brings his prosthetic arm beneath the blanket and tugs it around him, drawing it over the plane of his belly and the valley of his hips. She thinks it is due to the dim lighting, but a delicate pink has flushed beneath stippled freckles and by the tips of his ears. His foot is tapping against the kitchen tile, she notes, although she attributes it to one of his continuous natural tics.

“Nine o’clock. For now, at least. It might be earlier.” She smooths out the fabric of her pyjama blouse beneath the white metal of her hand and gives him a stern look. “After I finish with my errand, we can do whatever it is you need to do. We will visit the tea shop last, and that will be at noon. No later. Is that understood?”

“Right.” Junkrat swallows, adam’s apple dipping down, and he manages a grin. “Right, good, sounds like a plan. I’ll be sure to let Roadie know. He’ll have the old girl purring up a storm.”

“And I will have you know that if we are to be sharing a sidecar, I expect you to be completely spotless,” she adds. “I will not have more of my clothing subjected to further stains.” She leaves _because of you_ unsaid.

“Spotless?” Biting his lip, he peers down at himself and wiggles his toes. “Well, not so sure ‘bout spotless. Might be a bit much. I only got one arm and one leg in there, y’know.”

“All right, as close to spotless as you are able,” she amends. “My point still stands: I do not want to look like a grease trap, before _or_ after, so it might behoove you to bring something to clean with if you are going to be crawling under vehicles all morning.”

Perhaps that is too cold, she thinks. Perhaps that is too harsh for friends. But the wrenching feeling of Vishkar bubbles up beneath and threatens the teetering balance of her equanimity, and so she sets her jaw in austere stoicism. She does not need him prying further.

Junkrat only shrugs beneath his blanket. “I’ll give the spotless bit a go,” he says. “Don’t think I got any spare rags or anything, though. Roadhog might got one, but pretty sure he uses it while working on the missus.”

“Torbjörn has a few in the workshop.” Satya doesn’t know why she’s bothering to offer suggestions. Why does this matter?

“Yeah? Might pay him a visit, then. Nick one or two.” He flashes glinting gold at her in a wide grin.

Satya only offers an affirming nod before starting toward the mess hall once more. She proceeds all of two steps before she hears Junkrat call after her again.

“Oi, Symmetra.”

She glances over her shoulder. “Yes?”

Junkrat’s gaze has migrated to the floor. His arms have been brought beneath the blanket, folded and out of sight, and the curve of his stature suggests a degree of reticence. “‘Preciate the knife,” he murmurs.

It takes a moment to register, but she remembers the sleek body of the blade she’d crafted while he remained in the shower stall not two days before. She remembers weaving its geometry between her fingers and she remembers sliding it into the leather sheath by his belongings. The thought pulls a distinct heat up beneath her cheeks and down her neck, and she forces everything down in a gripping swallow, banishing it to the spaces around her lungs.

“It was no trouble,” she says, and retreats into the darkness of the mess hall.

Journeying through the compound proves useless in settling her nerves. Her pulse is a galloping beast and adrenaline has flushed through her veins for no foreseeable reason. There is nothing that can strap down the anxiety that has forced itself through to the forefront of her mind, and no matter how many mantras she breathes or schematics she summons in her mind’s eye, there is no placating it.

Her bed is steeped in sweat and nightmares and the charred embers of Rio, and so Satya wanders long into the night.


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, hey, this was pretty long and I'm gonna go soak my hands in epsom salt now. Got a bit sick then got better, and now things are on track again. Hopefully. Apologies for typos; running on not a lot of sleep. I'll go back and do some other fixing later. Anyway, enjoy the prequel to the Third Thing! Woo!
> 
> _But you had to come along, didn't you?_   
>  _Tear down the doors, throw open windows_   
>  _Oh, if you knew just what a fool you have made me_   
>  _[So what do I do with this?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QLySk3i4dFI) _

“Don’t you think something a little more lightweight would work better? A more compact earpiece would make sense.”

Mei sits in Torbjörn’s chair beside Satya, a large periwinkle sweater swathing her wrists. Her hair is knotted into a neat bun, set in place by a silver hairpin. She takes one of the white pencils on the workshop table between her fingers and sketches something small right beside Satya’s drawing. The white markings overtop the blueprint sheet depict a small earbud-like device, approximately the size of Satya’s thumbnail, with a curved piece to latch on to the shell of the user’s ear.

“I think something more like this would most closely resemble what we used before,” she says. “Well, that’s before I left for the Antarctic. Everyone might have used another model afterward. Something like this would just be for those of us who don’t have something like Reinhardt’s armor we could use for integration. There was the issue of those falling off, though… I don’t think they were manufactured very well. The few times I used them, they weren’t that secure.”

“It was simply poor design.” Satya scratches a line through the crude sketch with a decisive stroke. “My design will aim for function and efficiency. Something so flimsy is neither functional nor efficient. That is why I chose this size. Hard-light as a building material is very lightweight, so there will not be any concern about its heaviness posing a hindrance.”

Mei taps her pencil against her chin in thought, eyes squinted behind the frames of her glasses. “I guess so. But still, wouldn’t something like that get in the way? I mean, it looks like it covers most of the ear and down a ways for support. Surely there is a way we could make it a little bit smaller. Oh, and what about size differences? Everyone has different sized ears, you know. Something that would fit on Roadhog would never fit on me.”

“I will have to create different models for everyone,” says Satya. She traces a series of lines across the blue printed paper and jots down a series of numbers in equal intervals to demonstrate. “They will be modified using a scale. I will have to take measurements, of course, but sizing should not be an issue.”

“Well, that makes a bit more sense. At least there will be variations for everyone.” Mei drags the ivory graphite along beside Satya’s design in faint lines, indicating the lower piece of the communicator that would draw down toward the wearer’s cheek. “This seems unnecessary, though.”

“It helps serve as balance,” says Satya. “I can thin the piece as a whole, but I don’t know if that would produce any negative side effects in transmission. Implementing the appropriate technology inside will be a process. I created this only as a first draft, so there will no doubt be improvements that must be made. We will have to test and see, I suppose.”

Mei nods in approval. “That sounds like a plan to me. It’s a good start, at least. We have something to work off of. Do you mind if I take this to Torbjörn and Doctor Ziegler so they could give it a once over? I’m sure they could suggest some ideas, too.”

“Not at all,” she replies. “I welcome the critique.”

The implication that her design might not meet their standards causes an uncomfortable twinge in her chest, but Satya reminds herself that this should be treated like any other structure for any other client. There must be an agreement on an appropriate model in order to continue with the project. Disagreements will happen, regardless of whether or not the design she developed fit all of the specifications; everyone will always envision something different.

With a cheery smile, Mei places her pencil upon the workshop table and rolls up the sketched blueprint between her hands into a thin tube. She makes a sideward glance toward Junkrat’s portion of the room as she pushes the chair back and hops to her feet. The area is in disarray, as per usual; his piles of wires, casings, and various reagents litter the floor in haphazard volcanoes of spilling parts.

“So, is this how he always keeps it?” she asks.

“Unfortunately.” Satya gathers the two pencils and deposits them in their proper receptacle tucked toward the back of her workspace. “I have given up on expecting him to organize it. It has been this way for weeks now. There was a time when it was worse, if you can believe that.”

“Really? Hard to believe with a mess like that.” Mei crinkles her nose. “Wouldn’t this be considered dangerous? I mean, all of those chemicals just sitting there? What if someone steps on something?”

“I have no doubt it is dangerous. Winston forced him to store his finished pieces in specialized cases, but he said nothing about the components.” Satya frowns at the scattered collection of vials and coils of wiring. “I have come to terms with it. On some level. Against my wishes. I would organize them myself, but I would rather not risk triggering a volatile compound. Something tells me half the building would be missing.”

“I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t want to touch them, either.” Mei offers a sympathetic look, the blueprint secured among her hands. “Well… good luck with that, I guess? I’ll be back a little later after I’ve had the chance to talk to the others and get their input. Winston should probably see this, too. When do you think a good time to meet would be?”

“Three o’clock, I believe,” says Satya. “Or sometime after three. I have some errands to run this morning, and I have a suspicion that they may run late. It’s best to err on the side of caution.”

“Fair enough. Three or later it is. That should be more than enough time to gather some data. I’ll stop by around then and see if you’re here.” Mei gives a wave as she pads toward the workshop door. “See you later. Good luck with the errands!”

Satya sighs. She has a feeling she may need more than luck. It shouldn’t, but a knotting feeling of anxiousness nests in down beneath the beds of her lungs. Ever since agreeing to Junkrat’s proposition in the pale halogens of the kitchen, she has been dreading today’s approach. While there was more than ample notice, it is still not something she is accustomed to. She was not prepared earlier on this morning, and she is certainly not prepared now. The thought of spending a morning with the junkers wrangles something odd and uncomfortable through her, and a part of her starts to wonder if she should call it off and let Junkrat know she is no longer interested in attending.

After wheeling Torbjörn’s chair back over to his side of the room, Satya exits the workshop and makes her way back to her space in the barracks. It is far to the back of the enclosure, enmeshed between a number of empty areas that she deemed would serve her needs. She sidles between the walled mazes that serve as makeshift rooms for privacy’s sake; she passes Mercy’s and Tracer’s bedrooms, neat and mussed respectively, until she reaches the familiar confines of her own.

Her bed’s sheets are smooth, tucked, and pristine. The desk is spotless, its chair pushed in to its back. The nightstand is home to two smiling grenade shells and a small glass of water she had not quite finished from the previous night. There is a small mahogany wardrobe just beyond where she stores the remainder of her uniforms, clothes, and shoes, coupled with a chest at the end of her bed for… well, for whatever purpose she might see for it.

With Gibraltar’s summer heat in mind, she decides to forgo her usual choice of a plain blouse and pressed slacks. Instead, she decides on a sleek and flowing dress from the wardrobe, one that an older colleague at Vishkar had bestowed to her during one of their off the books outings. It is knee length affair, short sleeved, simple in design, and soaked in rich golds and whites for a distinct Utopaean flair. While it is not the style of dress she would normally care to entertain, it is an apt choice for the current weather. She must remove her gauntlet and assemble it again overtop the sleeve, but she does so with practiced precision and haste. Her thick hair is taken care of by sculpting it into an immaculate bun in order to stave off the heat, and she settles for a set of white heeled sandals for breathing room.

Before she takes her leave, she makes a point to snatch her wallet with Vishkar’s corporate card and slips it into the thin, powdered blue purse over her shoulder. The card’s purpose is for miscellaneous expenses while deployed on errands or other important business, but since Chana’s cloth will be to repair her combat attire that had been designed by Vishkar, she has no qualms in sending the transaction Vishkar’s way. Besides, she reasons, she rarely fills out expense reports as it is. A few pounds spent here and there for her uniform’s upkeep won’t be snubbed.

The walk to the hangar is far more eventful than she would like. She spots Mercy and Genji a short way past the infirmary, who both offer brief salutations before immersing themselves in conversation that seems to concern the delicate nature of Genji’s integrated cybernetics. McCree and Reinhardt give her hearty waves from one of the leather couches in the rec room, and Ana shouts an affectionate hello from beside them. Winston plods along in a grey bodysuit, exiting the mess hall with a hefty jar of peanut butter in tow. He mutters something that she swears sounds an awful lot like, “Please don’t tell Lena,” but she can’t be certain.

The hangar is much quieter, to her relief. With the warm summer sun coasting at her back, she slinks in one of the side entrances with careful steps to the soft and comforting hum of churning machinery. Gigantic metal crates of questionable content—spare parts, she assumes—are situated throughout the building, stacked upon one another and tucked into far corners. Toward the very center, suspended above various workstations and supplies, is the impressive form of the ORCA. Despite the ample space within the hangar, the dropship seems to dwarf everything around it with its enormous size.

Satya takes the longer route around the sides of the towering crates in hopes that she will have time to talk some courage into herself. This will be nothing but another trip down to Gibraltar, she thinks. She will procure the fabric she needs, hang around Junkrat and Roadhog for an hour or two, and then finish everything up at the tea shop he had mentioned. After that, she will be back at the outpost, and she can then spend the rest of the afternoon working on other designs for the communicator. It will be short and sweet. Only a few hours’ worth. Everything will be fine.

As she draws closer to the far corner of the hangar where Roadhog had established his workspace, she can discern the sound of a voice welling up over the machinery’s constant thrum. It’s an unintelligible garble at first, just the thin noise of strung and mashed phonemes, but as she threads beneath the ORCA and behind the body of a particularly large steel container, she realizes that the voice belongs to Junkrat. Straining to hear, she peers around the edge of the crate.

“Oh, come off it, mate. I don’t wanna hear it.”

Junkrat is sprawled and supine on the floor, a slew of what she suspects to be Roadhog’s tools scattered around him in silver clusters. He seems to be toying with something shiny between his hands, twisting and twirling between orange metal fingers. The distance prevents her from seeing any signifying details, but she assumes it to be a wrench of some kind. Beside him sits the wiry body of a metal chair, and he appears to have draped a spare rag or two over its arms. It occurs to her that he must have taken her stern suggestion and ‘borrowed’ them from Torbjörn’s space in the workshop, and she doesn’t know whether to be anxious or relieved at the thought.

It’s then that she realizes a red swatch of cloth covers his top half. Satya narrows her gaze and squints across from her vantage point. Is… is he wearing a _shirt_?

Slight movement catches her attention, and she glances over toward Roadhog. He sits a short way to the left, knelt down by the great girth of his yellow and black patterned motorcycle. His back is to her, the knot of his hair a soft and pleasant platinum under the cool fluorescents, his spike- and tire-wrought harness oddly absent. His position suggests that he is attending to something on the bike’s sidecar, although the welding mask that rests a short distance away implies he had once been doing heavier work. With a massive hand, he reaches out behind himself and grabs a hold of a nearby wrench before continuing.

She can’t hear anything over the underlying drone of the facility’s machinery, but she assumes Roadhog must have said something because Junkrat heaves an exasperated sigh and stamps the heel of his boot on the floor.

“Look, I ain’t cracking onto her or nothing, all right? S’not like that.” He waves a metal hand at his bodyguard in a curt, dismissive manner. “I’m serious. It’s not. So you can just shut your trap and mind your own bloody business. Ain’t got nothing to talk about. And don’t go telling me there is just ‘cause you’re worried ‘bout your lovely little shiela there. She’ll be fine. Not like a little extra kilo or two’s gonna hurt anything.”

Satya frowns as she listens. While her proficiency in multiple languages has provided her a great vocabulary in each, and while she knows a good deal of slang in the English language, never has she heard the word ‘crack’ used in such a context. An Australian colloquialism, she assumes, although coming into the conversation halfway through provides her little to work with. Tilting her head to the side for a better angle, she thinks she can hear some sort of low murmur from Roadhog in reply, but she can’t discern any exact words.

“I said there’s nothing to talk about. Pull your head in.” Junkrat leans upward and seems to scowl at Roadhog. “Got enough on me mind already. Don’t need none of your smartarse comments. And don’t need none of ‘em in town, neither, so you best keep your gob stuffed.”

Roadhog rises to his feet and pockets the wrench. His shoulders shrug in what looks to be a heavy inhale. There is definitely a deep rumble that follows it; a response, she assumes.

“Hog, I swear, I ain’t doing nothing like that. Swear it. Not like she’d be keen if I was.” Junkrat drops whatever he had been holding and flops his arms across the floor, as if frustrated, and a shining sapphire gleam rolls onto his belly. His foot moves back and forth to an internal rhythm to continue where his hands had left off. “I mean… she’s top sort, but you seen her, right? You been ‘round her a few times. Seen how she is. That ain’t her deal, and you know it. Too good for stuff like that. Too… I dunno. Too everything.”

Scratching at his scalp, Roadhog leans down and scoops up some of the strewn tools. As he plucks them from the floor, he answers in a low thrum. If Satya really strains, she thinks she can hear small scraps of _know_ , _rat_ , and _talk_ , but she is half convinced it might be the overwhelming grind of the machinery.

“I’m telling you, mate, she ain’t like that,” he says, swatting at him with his peg. “Hell, or maybe I’m not. I dunno. S’just… ridiculous. Not used to it, right. None of it. Both of us was out there for yonks and this place’s nothing like it. I mean, not like it’s Sydney or anything. But it’s not like London or all the rest. People’s nice and proper here. Well, most of ‘em. All professionals, though. Junkers is just bloody roughies compared to all them. They ain’t got lasers or healing sticks or glowy hand tricks or any of the like.”

Junkrat picks up the item he’d dropped, and after a moment of squinting, Satya realizes it’s the new blade she’d crafted for him. He holds it up between his fingers toward the ceiling, its sleek body glittering under the soft light, and he seems to stare at it with reverence. Something plucks at the strings by her heart in erratic melodies.

“S’just… different. It’s weird. Reckon we’d stick out a bit, but rest of them’s just as bad. Misfits, the whole lot of ‘em. Got a cowboy, some giant from Germany, Snowball from the Arctic or wherever, got a medic in an angel suit, zippy girl with that little blue thingo, and two talking tin cans. Then we got Nan and Scarface and Miss Order and the short bloke with the claw hand and big beard. And then there’s you and me.”

He holds up the dagger with metal fingers and draws his good hand over across it with a gentle slowness. A lump has fixed itself in Satya’s throat as she watches him admire it, and she finds that her palm has become inexplicably damp.

“I dunno, mate. Idea’s just bad. Bad all around. And I got plenty of bad ideas. Never went about anything like it before, y’know. Never had to. And can’t just up and start with nothing, right. Just… can’t. Too weird. Like I’ll muck it up and then something’s gonna bite me in the arse for it. Don’t like it. So I’m not. All right? So quit with the bloody asking. And I ain’t got no plans for it, neither, so you can just shove that spanner right ‘tween your teeth ‘cause I know exactly what you’re gonna say and the answer’s still no.”

With all of his tools collected, Roadhog plods back over to the motorcycle and begins placing them in their respective spaces within the toolbox. Satya can’t tell with the mask over his face, but he seems to glance over his shoulder at Junkrat and mumble something through the black breathers.

“Right, look, I just said no. All right?” Junkrat leans up on his elbows and glares at him. “S’not like that. Didn’t plan nothing. And I’m not gonna screw anything up, so don’t give me that. You been telling me to be on me best behavior, and I have been, so maybe you best do the same, yeah?”

Roadhog grabs his toolbox between his hands and rises to his feet. He turns his back to her again and seems to mutter something to Junkrat.

“Just—put a bloody sock in it, will you? I don’t wanna jeopardize the job. We got it good here, mate. Got our own spaces. I got a _bed_. A good, proper bed, and with pillows and all that. Not that it’s used much, but still. Point stands. And we got food, right, and got a place for ol’ shiela there. I mean, hell, can finally have a slash ‘thout looking over your shoulder ‘cause you been thinking one of them junker drongos’s got something out for you and you don’t want him dragging some knife down your neck. Look, the ape’s paying us to be here and be all pampered with all this. I get to blow things up on our nice little outings, and you get to sit there and look pretty. I’d say that’s a damn good setup.”

Junkrat sighs and rolls over as Roadhog stands over him. He nudges Junkrat’s leg with his shoe, and when that elicits no response, Roadhog gives the toolbox a hearty shake. The raucous clang of shifting tools does the trick.

“What? What d’you want?” Junkrat scowls up at him from the floor. “I said it’s a good setup, and it is. What more you want from me? I told you, mate, I don’t wanna jeopardize the job. And you know what doing something like that is? Jeopardizing. Plain and simple. S’just business smarts, right, and I’m not having no part of it. Dunno why you suddenly got so much interest in me or her or anything, but how’s about you go rack off ‘cause I’m really not in the mood.”

Satya pushes herself out from behind the crate at last. She takes three steps forward, and when neither Junkrat nor Roadhog pause to acknowledge her presence, she knots her fingers together and says, “Interest in whom, exactly?”

Junkrat bolts upright in a violent arc at the sound of her voice, and promptly bashes his head against one of the chair’s armrests. Sucking a harsh breath with some choice curses between his teeth, he groans and nurses the spot with his good hand. His entire body tenses with the task of wrangling back the pain, and he curls in on himself in attempt to shake it off.

As Satya steps closer, a number of things become apparent.

One: Junkrat is, in fact, wearing a shirt. A thin red tank top that ends just an inch or two shy of his waistband has been shimmied over top of him. While it seems to have seen far better days in its scraggly lifetime, it fits him quite well. To top things off, the width of the neckline teases not only healthy clusters of freckles, but also visible tan lines from the straps of where his harness once set.

Two: Junkrat has kept his word on the ‘spotless’ front. Try as she might, Satya cannot find a speck of ash or soot anywhere in sight. His hair is clean (albeit tousled and unbrushed), his face looks to have been thoroughly scrubbed, and the rest of him seems almost kempt. Perhaps it’s the light, but even his prosthetic arm has a polished shine.

And three: Junkrat is quite pitiful when in pain.

“Are you all right?” Satya approaches his side and leans down, too hesitant to move his hand. It’s almost jarring, she thinks; he shrugs off bullet grazes and abdominal wounds, and yet he crumples at a chair knocking him in the head. “That seemed… unpleasant.”

“Unpleasant don’t begin to cover it.” He squeezes his eyes shut and musses his hair as he rubs at the sure to be forming bump. With his metal hand, he angrily shoves the chair aside. “Piece of junk.”

Roadhog towers over her, and he sidles his toolbox into one arm before giving her a wave. Tentatively, she returns it, and a deep rumble comes from behind his mask as Junkrat squirms in pain on the floor.

“What are _you_ laughing at?” he says, glowering up at his bodyguard. “Oi, I don’t go laughing at you when you smack your knee or something.”

Roadhog grunts and holds up one finger in reply.

“Ugh. Right, okay, fine, there was that _one_ time you tripped over that gutted engine and fell flat on your face. But that was different.” Junkrat sniffs. “Your gut got in the way.”

Chuckling beneath his mask, Roadhog flits a dismissive gesture in Junkrat’s direction before striding away. His heavy steps echo throughout the hangar and crawl up among the walls with the machinery’s continual hum.

“Where is he going?” asks Satya, watching the massive form of him as he traverses beneath the shadow of the ORCA.

“Putting his stuff away, most like,” says Junkrat. He brings his hand away from his head in a cautious manner, as if he expected blood to blot his palm. “And grabbing her keys.”

“He wouldn’t keep them here?” she asks. “Or on his person?”

“Dunno. Probably’d make sense to, but he don’t. He’s real protective of her. Got some little safe under his bed. Keeps ‘em in there. Why, no idea.” Junkrat shrugs, inspecting the flat of his hand for splotches of red. “Won’t tell me nothing, so I stopped asking.”

Satya peers down at where he’d struck his head. Thick blond hair covers most of where it met with the chair, and what isn’t has what looks to be faint patches of new growth unfurling in. “You aren’t bleeding, are you?”

“Nah.” He curls his fingers and strokes the inside of his palm, testing for anything damp or sticky. “Don’t look like it, at least. Should be fine. Not like I normally go bashing me own head in or anything. Just wasn’t really expecting you to pop in out of nowhere is all.”

“It was not my intent to startle you.” She folds her arms and gazes down at him. “Might I ask who you were speaking of? You said Roadhog had established interest in you and someone else.”

“What? No. It’s fine—nothing. I meant nothing. It’s nothing. Really, nothing to worry about.” Junkrat reaches out and grabs a hold of the hard-light dagger that had skidded to his side in his injury’s aftermath. With haste, he tucks it back in the sheath strapped to the back of his belt. “Just—he’s been sticking his nose where it don’t belong and he’s being a real pain in the arse about it. Won’t leave well enough alone. Starting to get on me nerves.”

Gingerly, he presses his palms to the floor and hoists himself to his feet. His forehead is still rumpled with pain, she notes, and he kneads his good hand through his hair again to ward off the ache. The urge to tug him down by the shirt so she can look at the injury pulls in hot threads down beneath her skin; her fingers tremble and there is a latent want for contact tucked within her pores, but she digs her nails into her arm and shoves it aside.

“Shouldn’t we have asked him to bring back ice?” She glances over her shoulder at the last glimpse of Roadhog’s retreating frame, hoping it will banish the prickling feeling down her throat, but it doesn’t. “A cold compress may help.”

Junkrat wrinkles his nose. “Nah. I’m fine. Should be, anyway. No worries.”

“If you’re certain,” she says. “You know, if you start to feel dizzy or nauseous, you must visit Mercy. Those are signs of a more serious injury.”

“Eh, shouldn’t need it. Just hurts, is all. Stings.” He pulls his hand away once more and glances among his lifelines for blood. “Seems all right. I think. Maybe.”

Biting at the inside of her mouth, Satya reaches up, frames his face with her hands, and tugs him downward in one fluid gesture. Junkrat yelps; he staggers forward to accommodate the posture and lets his fingers coil into fists. As she brings his scalp down to face level, the warmth of his cheek flush with her palm, she hears him curse under his breath in soft, threadbare whispers. With a mindful gentleness, she thumbs back thick locks of his hair on his left side, and parts them down to the roots to see where he had hit himself. There is a definite knot there, she notes, small and swelling, but there is no broken skin from what she can tell. A good sign.

“Perhaps you should avoid lying on the floor,” she says, smoothing his hair back over. “It might prevent such things in the future.”

“Or chairs. Y’know, seeing as that’s what got me.”

“Or chairs,” she agrees.

Brushing her thumb across his temple, delicate heat soaking through the pad of her finger, she lowers her hands to her sides. Junkrat stays still, as if he is unsure if he is allowed to move; his shoulders are rigid, his head unmoving, his back set in a slight curve. After a moment or two, he finally lets himself straighten in a gradual arc. Soft pink tips at his ears beneath the overhead lights as he evens out his stature, and his adam’s apple bobs in a thick swallow.

“Right,” he says. His voice has taken on a tinge of hoarseness, and he clears his throat with a cough. “Right, well, should probably show you Roadie’s pride and joy, yeah? He might be a tick or two knowing him, so it’s probably best. Least you can get a good look at her before he gets back. Maybe pop in so we’ll be ready to roll once he gets his arse back here.”

Junkrat steps to the side and heads over toward the motorcycle, approaching its side in his uneven gait. Satya follows, watching the plane of his back shift beneath the red fabric with his movements. The glint of the blade at the back of his belt catches her eye, and the brief image of him cloaked in a blanket beneath the kitchen halogens surfaces in the back of her mind.

“First time you’ve seen her, right?” He leans up against the yellow sidecar, the telltale grin of his grenades plastered across its front. He pats the bike’s black leather seats with his good hand and regards the vehicle with a degree of fondness. “Real firecracker. Got a powerhouse for an engine, too. Don’t know all the specs meself, so you’ll have to ask Hog if you wanna know ‘cause he won’t let me touch any of the good stuff. Real particular, right. Had me a look once or twice, and he weren’t too happy ‘bout it. Dodged a couple of loose spanners then. Still, she’s right amazing and got us out of a tight spot or two. More than that, come to think of it. Beauty, ain’t she?”

Satya glances over the body of the motorcycle. The extended front suspension up to the wide spread handlebars is particularly large, she notes, and the wireframe itself is quite immense. She assumes the bike was custom built to accommodate Roadhog’s bulk, and from the careful attention he’d showed earlier, there is a possibility that he might have performed most of the work himself. Some of the frame appears rather worn, while other pieces hold a gleaming sheen that suggest newer parts. Below the yellow painted fuel tank is a tiny, pale pig figurine wedged between two pieces of metal—an odd choice of trinket, yet apt—and although she is not fond of the various spikes that jut out from the sidecar or beside the headlight, she supposes overall it is somehow less unsightly than she’d imagined, if not a touch primitive.

“It seems like it serves its purpose well enough,” she says. Bending down, she peers at the twin pairs of spikes—tusks?—that frame the front headlight. “However, I do not see the aesthetic value of additions such as these. I find they detract from the vehicle’s overall appearance. It is… unattractive.”

“Shh shh _shh_!” Junkrat bolts forward and poises his hands before the bike, positioning himself between her and its frame as a makeshift barrier. “Oi, don’t let her hear you say that. She’s _sensitive_ , y’know? Can’t rightly go saying stuff like that ‘bout her. She’s gonna be giving you a ride, after all. Criticizing her looks? That’s bloody rude, that is.” He splays his fingers over the fuel tank and turns to the motorcycle, stroking over the metal as if it were some sort of cherished pet. “Aw, c’mon, don’t listen to her, love. She don’t know what she’s talking about. I like all the spiky stuff. Looks nice. Fashionable, even. Makes a good _point_ , if you ask me.”

While Junkrat has very little room to decide what is rude and what isn’t, his expression is exaggerated with comical smugness and Satya can’t help but laugh behind her hand. She knows it’s only going to encourage him, gods forbid, but she supposes a smug Junkrat is far better than a pitiful Junkrat. Although the former is almost enough to drive her mad, she would much rather see him with a self-satisfied smile than curled up on the floor and in pain.

The latter, she decides, does not suit him in the slightest.

Satya takes a few steps over toward the sidecar. She places her hands over its metal hull, the coolness of its smooth texture filling the valleys along her palm, and she gives it a once over. It is less impressive than the motorcycle itself, and it seems as though it had been hastily acquired at some point during Junkrat and Roadhog’s various adventures. There are silver plates drilled over top of where holes might have been punched through, bullets or otherwise, and the vibrant yellow paint has chipped in certain places around its exterior. The metal encasing part of its wheel is adorned with even more spikes—such a tacky design choice, she broods, although these were most likely for other purposes—and it appears to have fallen victim to some of Junkrat’s inane scribbling.

She rises on her tiptoes to catch a glance of the interior, and to her discomfort, it appears to be rather small. The seat is worn and sunbleached almost grey, and as she leans in a touch further, she can see discarded grenade shells and what looks to be an empty bag of crisps at the bottom. She hopes the grenade shells are empty. She can’t imagine why they wouldn’t be, but knowing Junkrat, he might have squirreled them away there with the excuse of ‘safekeeping.’

Twisting around, Satya turns to Junkrat to question their seating arrangements, but his gaze causes her to close her mouth and take pause. He’s _staring_ at her, she realizes, and quite blatantly—his eyes dip from her blue crystal earrings down to the heeled pair of white sandals on her feet. A pointed canine sinks into his lip as he glances back up to the golden hem of her dress, and then as if the exact same realization had just bludgeoned him in the back of the skull to keep the other swelling welt company, Junkrat succumbs to a full body jolt and immediately whips in the opposite direction. The cargo cases across the room now hold far more interest than the fluttering folds of her dress, and his ears flush with a warm shade of pink.

Was… was he—?

“Junkrat,” she says.

A heartbeat passes. Two. Three.

“Symmetra,” he replies.

Junkrat offers no further words, and yet his body language shouts paragraphs upon paragraphs upon novels in his stead. His hands prop himself against the frame of the motorcycle in a nonchalant stature, but his shoulders are brought inward and his jaws have clenched. The hangar lights cast soft shadows by his neck and down his cheek, etching in by the line of his collarbone, and despite the faint natural sunlight pathing in from the hangar’s varied entrances, the color in his cheeks cannot be masked.

Satya breathes in the smell of oiled machinery and the musty atmosphere of the hangar. Summer strings its fingers through each inhale, and so does Junkrat’s lingering scent. Her nails press thin quarter moons among the valleys that trace her palm; she needs something, anything to ground her, and all that seems to do the job is physical pressure.

She should be annoyed. She should be upset, or angry, or… or _something_. Shouldn’t she? After all, if this were anyone else, she would have admonished them in an open and public manner. She has done so in the past, flawlessly and effortlessly (much to Sanjay’s amusement), and she holds no qualms on putting someone in their place. She is composed and well together and far beyond behavior like this.

But she’s not. At all. In fact, she has been doing the very same to him—and perhaps he’s noticed?

Tightness wrings around her throat at the thought, and it becomes difficult to swallow. Has she been staring at him so blatantly this entire time? Was he only staring because he’d noticed her gaze and had assumed it was all right? Gods, and he had to have noticed. He _had_ to. She has no doubt. Junkrat is a madman with a penchant for explosives and volatile compounds, but he has proven himself to be surprisingly astute on certain occasions, and this would of course be one of them.

Satya begins to prompt him for some sort of response, but the heavy sounds of Roadhog’s returning steps stop her short. She presses her lips together in suffering silence, and Junkrat shifts out of her peripheral to meet his colossal bodyguard.

“‘Bout time you showed up,” he calls, somehow far more boisterous than before. “The hell’d you do, mate, have a walk around the whole bloody base? How long you planning to keep us waiting? The missus is raring to go, and we got us some ground to cover!”

Satya has a false start at _missus_ before she realizes that he’s referring to the motorcycle instead, and then she has to scold herself for being so incredibly stupid. Damn him, she thinks; damn him and damn this arrangement and damn herself for ever considering it.

Roadhog approaches the motorcycle, a set of keys clutched in one gigantic hand. He thumbs through the array of metal slivers—five or six, she notes—until he finds the one he’s looking for. Satya can’t be sure what the others might belong to, but she assumes they must tend to personal treasures or hold some sort of sentimental value. Roadhog passes Junkrat with little reaction, and with the appropriate key brandished, he swings a leg over the bike’s seat and eases down onto the vehicle. It sinks beneath him as it bears his weight, but its frame is strong and keeps him aloft. He switches the key into the ignition, and with his hands on the grips and a revving roar, the motorcycle rumbles to life.

“Now that’s more like it!” says Junkrat. He hops past her to grab a hold of the pack that he’d stashed over by the worktable, hefting it over his shoulder by the strap. Tools acquired, he zips around past the metal chair, snatches the twin rags, and heads up to the side of the motorcycle before promptly launching himself into the sidecar by his palms.

Satya stands there, silent and awkward and out of her element and tensing at the engine’s droning purr. Roadhog takes up the whole of the motorcycle’s leather seat, not including the packed gear that had been strapped onto the final portion behind the seat’s backing. Junkrat has taken residence in the sidecar’s small, smile-etched shell. There is no room for her, she realizes with sinking clarity; there is no room for her at all, not unless she happens to—

Roadhog appraises her behind his mask for a moment. When she meets his gaze, he draws a thick breath and taps Junkrat on the shoulder with his knuckles.

Junkrat swats at him with his good hand as he pokes up from situating his gear on the floor. “What?”

He jerks a thumb toward Satya without a word.

“Oh.” Junkrat slowly lifts himself to his feet, hands curled over the metal of the sidecar’s exterior. “Right. Well, reckon you probably need someplace to sit. Not unless you’re keen on hanging off the back or having yourself a good run.” He beckons toward him with two fingers. “C’mere.”

“You are certain there’s room?” With tentative steps, Satya closes the gap between her and Junkrat. The engine is loud, almost too loud, and she finds it difficult to concentrate with it blaring in her right ear and with Junkrat standing right before her in patchwork shorts and a crimson tank and tan lines wrought down the broad expanse of his shoulders.

“Eh, certain might be a bit generous,” he says, offering a shrug. “No worries, though. You’ll fit. I don’t take up the whole bloody seat like Hog here. Should be fine.”

Junkrat extends his prosthetic to her as he leans down from the sidecar. The amber of his eyes is kindled and alight with something she can’t pin, and when she presses the white metal of her hand in his, he cinches his fingers tight, exacting a familiar and deliberate pressure within her gauntlet, and he lifts with vigorous strength. His other arm snakes around her waist to help vault her over the side; his sheer closeness encroaches in when her sandals kiss the floor and she finds herself flush against the fabric of his shirt.

He’s too warm, she thinks. This man is smoke and coals and fire, and she swears an inferno must steep somewhere behind his ribcage.

With a satisfied noise in his throat, Junkrat releases her hand. “See? S’fine. Bit snug, but don’t matter none. You won’t be going nowhere ‘less I say so.” He slumps to the seat below, knees bowed outward, and he glances up at her with a grin. “C’mon. Have a sit.”

While there is ample legroom (and there must be, she supposes, to accommodate his lanky body), the amount of space on the seat itself is rather lacking. Despite his claim, he does take up the majority, and to her mounting discomfort, there is little else available to her other than his lap. His hands are suspended over himself expectantly, and although she suspects that he’s been aware of the situation since propositioning the event, it occurs to her that whether this is clever improvisation or cunning design, she cannot prove it either way.

Satya gathers her dress in her fingers and tries to will her heart back down her throat. “I expect you to behave,” she says.

“Behave?” Junkrat leans his arms against the back of the seat and sports an incredulous frown. “What d’you think I’m gonna do? Toss you out the side and wave hello?”

“You will do nothing because you will behave,” she says.

Steeling herself, she turns about and lowers herself onto his right thigh. As soon as she leans back against his chest, he drags in a deep breath and tucks his metal arm around her waist to pin her in place. This is neither combat nor reconnaissance nor mission work, and such close proximity sends prickles of discomfort webbing through her skin. It would be one thing if this were in the ORCA en route to a drop zone, but this is somewhere safe, domestic, _home_ , and yet he’s close and pressed and holding her as intimately as he had in the freefall above the ocean. Soft trembles clench down her spine at the thought, and she swears his thumb eases a light stroke against her stomach in reply.

It’s then that she realizes that there will be more of this particular arrangement. Not only is she going to be perched upon his lap and utterly flush with him until they reach Chana’s shop, she will be this way for the duration of his scrap procurement as well as the entire way back to the outpost.

Gods. What has she got herself into?

“Ladies and gentlemen, be sure to keep all arms and legs and metal bits in the car at all times. This is a nonstop flight and we won’t be stopping for no loose limbs.” Junkrat’s grip tightens by her belly. His boot shifts right by her sandals, the pack of tools shoved down below by the grenade shells and the discarded snack bag, and she can feel the rumble of the engine both through his body and through the soles of her feet. His chest presses against her, hard and warm and far too close, and his mouth lurks somewhere behind her left ear. “Good to go, mate. Let’s roll!”

The motorcycle’s engine revs beside her, and Satya squeezes her eyes shut. She doesn’t know why she agreed to this and she doesn’t know why she let him convince her. Regardless of whether or not she had any say, she could have simply refused to show, and then she could have proceeded to ignore him for the duration of… well, her sabbatical, really. And that’s what, seven months before she would return to Vishkar? It wouldn’t be impossible. Avoiding him for several months is in the cards, right?

The ride down into town causes her more inward discomfort than anything she could have possibly imagined. Although both of the junkers seem content to travel in silence and watch the passing scenery, which matches her preference just fine, she remains in a constant state of hyperawareness. Every tract of uneven terrain can be felt through the sidecar upon their descent from the Rock, and any particularly large pebbles or grooved paths of earth send her right into Junkrat’s side. While she is grateful for his arm’s support, as she is almost certain she would exit the car through unceremonious means without it, it keeps her in constant contact with the rest of his body. His tattooed shoulder rests beneath her shoulder blades, his bicep curving around her side and the orange metal of his prosthetic clasped snugly at her waist. Her legs are laced, folded between his, and with each jostle of the sidecar, she can feel the muscle of his calf as he bobs it to the cadence of some unheard rhythm.

The worst of it, she thinks, is neither the position of his arm nor the light touches of his leg, but the hard expanse of his chest and the utter closeness of his face. She has experienced this in several high adrenaline situations—the ruins, Ilios, the freefall, Gibraltar’s sweltering streets—and so she tells herself that it should not come as something that should jolt her out of her comfort zone with such ease, but it does. It is as personal and intense as when he had hugged her in the workshop last week, but exponentially _worse_. The workshop had been brief, albeit jarring, and she’d had a way out; here, there is no such luck on either front. The contact is constant, prolonged, hot pressure down her back and soft freckles in her peripheral, and unless she wants to vault back over the edge of the sidecar and spin out onto the dirt roads, there is no plausible (or safe) method of escape.

Gods. She can even feel the faint pressure of the canteen hitched to his belt against her backside. The sheathed blade and other sure to be grenade stuffed pouches adorn his hips as well, and a part of her fears that his body shifting might aggravate any lurking explosives on his person and cause the motorcycle to burst into raining scraps. Then again, as far as she knows, he has never had any accidental detonations—and he very much knows his way around a bomb, she supposes—so perhaps her trepidation is unfounded.

Still, it does nothing to smother down her heart as it clambers its way up her throat and into the back of her mouth. It does nothing to ease her pulse back down to a normal rate, and it does nothing to stopper the well of delight that has sprung up among the spaces of her lungs. It’s terrible, she knows, and it mystifies her more than anything she has ever encountered. Everything about being drawn into his lap is strange and unusual and terrifying and _delightful_ and she has no way of parsing it.

Satya doesn’t understand. This is not how things should be. It isn’t. What is she supposed to _do_ with something like this?

And so here she is, settled on his lap, the warmth of the rising sun coating her skin and Junkrat’s body heat radiating through his clothes and somehow intent on soaking through every inch of her. His breaths are strong and even, ribs and muscle pressing flush with her back, and every now and then he will pause and lean behind her to catch the scenery. His movements are slight, and yet her own vigilance marks every adjustment of his shoulder, each tic of his leg, the moments where his grip tightens, the opportunities he takes to stretch out his back. There are patterns to the way he moves, she notes, patterns and rituals and designs, and she is startled to realize that she has become too focused on him to acknowledge the engine’s once grinding roar.

Just as he was in Gibraltar’s streets, Junkrat serves as an unwanted focal point that eschews everything around her but him, his presence, his skin, his _heat_. She has used others in similar fashions to ward off the asphyxiating pressure of crowds or other unfavorable situations, but the only other comparison she could possibly make would be to Sanjay when he’d brought her under his wing—and even that does not come close to what this has become. A fully fledged architech introducing her to Vishkar’s corporate world with soft smiles and mutual aspirations cannot possibly compare to a fiery madman who has managed to fix himself into such an odd position in her life.

It takes Satya longer than she would care to admit to notice how far they have descended. They have traveled far enough down the Rock for trees to sprout and collect in quaint copses, and as the motorcycle curves down switchbacks and draws closer toward town, the vibrant green of summer leaves and crisp foliage flourish beside the road. Cirrus wisps have been strewn across the cool skies above, and although the sun shines down with a fierce strength, the whipping winds have managed to make it almost pleasant.

Roadhog eases their speed as they reach Gibraltar’s outskirts. The engine dials back, and Satya shudders in a breath beneath the palm of Junkrat’s metal hand. The taken path passes by some of the areas she and Junkrat had fled through with McCree under Talon’s pursuit, and she snatches glimpses of broken buildings or splintered streets where grenades had been thrown. The bodies have long since been disposed of, or so she assumes, but the lingering structural damage of the town still remains. Satya knows she can’t participate in whatever repair or redevelopment that might take place, but she wonders if she might be able to make an anonymous contribution to the city in hopes of assisting reparation efforts.

When they begin to approach the more heavily populated squares, Satya leans past Junkrat to tap Roadhog on the belly. He gives her a nod of acknowledgement, and then rolls his shoulder as if to let her know he’s listening. She opens the fabric of her purse and withdraws a folded sheet of paper with the storefront’s name written on its inner spaces, and she holds it out for him. Without removing his gaze from the road, he accepts it between giant fingers and thumbs it open.

“It should be three streets over, I think,” she says.

Roadhog tucks the paper in his trouser pocket and makes the appropriate turn in reply.

There are no nearby lots in which to stow his motorcycle, so Roadhog opts to pause on the street right outside the shop. Satya disapproves of the choice, as a part of her raises its hackles at being seen in public with such a disparate pair of men. Onlookers perusing the nearby shops and cafés suspend their respective activities to get a proper look at the mechanical monstrosity and its colossal rider, and she notices passersby turning their heads to take stock of the sure to be odd image that her, Junkrat, and Roadhog create. The pressure of unwanted attention winds its fingers down her spine in a sawing, serrated grip, and so she directs her attention to the task at hand to stave off the world.

“I will return shortly,” she says, and starts to lift herself from Junkrat’s lap. It takes a moment or two for his arm to release her before she rises to her feet. “It should not take long.”

Junkrat squints at the arced name over the storefront in the slanting sunlight. “This is what your little errand was?”

“Yes, it is. I have something I need to pick up for a personal project.” She peers down at him, her hands clasped against the sidecar’s edge. “Is that a problem?”

“No,” he says. “No problem here. Just was wondering, is all.”

Satya turns back to the side of the car, slings her leg over, and lowers herself to the ground. Careful to mind the folds of her dress, she bunches them close in one hand as she sidles the rest of the way out. After a brief dusting and ensuring that nothing from Junkrat managed to cling to her clothes, she takes a short inhale to steel herself and heads inside, leaving the two junkers to wait for her on the street.

Inside, Chana lingers at the shop’s counter. Surrounded by bolts of various fabrics and a dated point of sale system, she tends to some sort of paperwork beneath thin, craggy hands. Her salt and pepper hair has been brought in a loose tail by her neck, and her kameez is wrought with brilliant aquamarine and swathing gold. She glances upward at Satya’s footsteps, and a thin smile creases her mouth.

“Ah, I was wondering when you would arrive,” she says. “Miss Vaswani, was it?”

“Yes, that is correct,” says Satya. “Were you able to find a similar fabric?”

“I believe so, but that is for you to decide. Come, I have received something that may please you.” Licking her lips, Chana pushes the papers aside and flits away from the front counter. “Keep in mind, it is not exact, but I believe it is close enough that the subtle differences might be overlooked. Of course, a discerning eye will know better, yes? But that is just between us.”

Satya follows Chana as she makes her way past walls of fabric and miscellaneous odds and ends. The azure bottoms of her salwar kiss the floor with every step, and concerning the selections of silk, cotton, and other flavors of textiles, Satya wonders if she had put any work into her own garments. The attention to detail on trim that lines her hems is quite exquisite; the embroidered designs hold the intricate sort of complexity that she truly admires.

The back of the shop harbors bigger bolts of fabric. They are stacked upon one another, spooled on wooden shelving that allows each type to be pulled from its roll and cut for interested customers. Beyond bins of specialty designs and tubs of yarn, Chana brings her to a stop. She raises one finger in a silent request to wait, and she slips beside a heavy bolt of starry silk to disappear into the back room for a moment or two.

When Chana emerges, she clutches an oblong cardboard box between her arms. Its top has been opened already, most likely to inspect its contents upon arrival, and the opened flaps reveal a roll of matte graphite fabric. Chana pries up one end out of the box and gestures for Satya to have a closer look.

As Satya runs her fingers across its surface, the first thing that she notices is that the texture is not the same. The type that had created her legging was a stippled sort of mesh, and while this one carries similar features, the consistency is entirely different. A touch rougher, she thinks; perhaps a different thread count than what was used? The color itself seems quite close, although she suspects it may be a shade or two off. It is difficult to tell without the fabric present for comparison.

Regardless, it is apparent that Chana knows her work.

“There are differences, but I believe this is closer than what I had expected.” Satya rubs the cloth between her thumb and forefinger. “Is this thicker?”

“It is, yes,” she replies. “I’m sure it is of a different type than what you are accustomed to, but with what you showed me, it is as exact as I could manage. This may have a little… ah, reinforcement? I believe that is correct. Of course, because of its thinness, it is not impregnable, but from what the supplier told me, there is a little flexweave involved.”

“I see.” That sounds familiar, and she wonders if Vishkar had commissioned something like it. “Well, I think this is satisfactory. If there is enough, I may be able to make several. How many yards?”

“There are thirty in this roll. There were other options, of course, but I assumed it was best to start small. Better to lose a smaller amount of money if this had not been to your liking. You may either purchase by the yard or the entire bolt. I don’t know how proficient you are at sewing, but you may want some to test with.”

“The bolt will be fine,” she says. Satya is about to dig into her purse for her Vishkar corporate card, but the distinct creak of the metallic hinge of the shop door draws her attention.

Chana cranes her neck with interest. “Here, let us move toward the front. I can take your payment there.”

When they surface from the aisles of colored fabrics and assorted sewing materials, Satya halts mid-stride. Just ahead, positioned between a pair of old shelves, stands Junkrat. He has a hand scratching at his scalp as he peers down at rolls of yarn and clustered spools of pastel threads in the plastic bins, and by the mystification that melds his brow and pulls at his mouth, he seems rather out of his element.

A rat in a fabric shop, she thinks. There must be a joke in there somewhere.

“ _Buenos días_ ,” says Chana. She passes by him as she makes her way back to the counter with the box of cloth. “Is there something I can help you find?”

“Right, yeah, you seen a lady in here by chance? Came in a bit ago.” Junkrat, now with greater purpose than staring at sewing supplies, follows after her and rests an elbow on the counter’s surface. “Got black hair all worn up, and she’s about, I dunno, maybe yay high?” He gestures close to the ends of his ribs, which is far lower than her true height. How short does he think she _is_?

“What are you doing here?” she asks, a hand hooking across her hip.

Junkrat looks over his shoulder and grins. “Oi, there you are. What’s taking you so long?”

“I told you I would return shortly. It hasn’t even been that long. You do not need to be here.” She approaches the counter and shoos him away with a curt flick of her hand. “Go back outside. I will pay for this, and then I’ll be out.”

“Killing me here,” he says, propping up his chin with his metal palm. “Clock’s ticking, y’know, and I don’t got my little book for keeping busy, so I’m just sitting out there with Roadie while he gets all braised up like some Chrissie ham.”

“You must learn to exercise patience. Believe me, I have no intention on wasting time this morning. You are only making it worse for yourself by following me.” Satya withdraws the card from her purse and hands it to Chana, flashing her what she hopes to be a smile of sympathy. “Place whatever cost of the bolt is on this. It should cover it.”

Chana accepts it between the pads of her fingers and sidesteps toward the till, squinting behind thin framed spectacles at the screen of a monitor. “I greatly appreciate the business, Miss Vaswani. Perhaps keep me in mind should you require any further specialty items, yes? Or for our usual stock. Whichever strikes your fancy.”

“Miss Vaswani?” Junkrat’s eyebrows arch with piqued interest.

“Yes, Vaswani my last name,” she says, and makes a point to keep her gaze fixed on the back wall. Small bins line the shelving, each filled with clustered fabrics of varying designs and color schemes. “I told you before that what you know me as is only a moniker. I prefer to use it in professional settings with others. It keeps work and personal life separate.”

Satya supposes she shouldn’t have to explain her reasoning to him of all people, especially considering his own preferred moniker of ‘Junkrat.’ But, if she has learned anything about him at all during his stay at the Gibraltar outpost, it’s that he is a man of endless surprises.

Junkrat opens his mouth to say something in response, but he then seems to think better of it, and he promptly closes it again. Although nonplus is visible through his sharp features, he accepts her statement with a shrug and lifts his elbow from the countertop.

“Here you are,” says Chana, offering both her card and a paper receipt between her thumb and forefinger.

“Thank you. It’s appreciated.” Satya takes both and deposits them into the primary pouch of her purse.

The clerk folds the flaps of the cardboard box over top of one another and fastens them down with a strip of tape from the dispenser by her monitor. “There, that should do it. Do keep in mind that I can help with finding a replacement for the gold trim when the time comes.” Chana scoops it up and extends her arms toward Satya with a smirk that somehow seems far too astute. “I wish you a pleasant day, Miss Vaswani. Try to keep cool, yes? I heard it was supposed to be quite hot today.”

Satya nods her gratitude and accepts the box. It is a bit heavier than she had expected, but she supposes the bolt itself coupled with the density of the fabric is the culprit. Sidling it in her arms, she turns for the shop door, Junkrat following her with uneven steps. She shifts the oblong box into a less awkward position so she can free one hand to open the door, but Junkrat reaches over her and tugs it open before she can manage it. Startled, she allows herself a hasty glance over her shoulder as she steps through the threshold: a faint smile frames his face as he bears the door against his shoulder, complementing his cheekbones and the paths of soft freckles that bridge his nose and smudge beneath his eyes.

She works down a swallow and wishes that he had stayed outside.

Roadhog waits on his motorcycle out by the curb. His thick arms are crossed over the girth of his chest, heaving with each heavy breath. Sweat has begun to coat his skin beneath the presence of the morning sun, but if brings him any sort of discomfort, he does not show any outward displays. Instead, he acknowledges Satya’s return with a short nod, and then unfolds his arms and situates his palms back over the bike’s handlebars.

Junkrat pulls ahead of her, anticipation guiding his gait, and he clambers into the sidecar with a light grunt. He reaches out to her with an open hand, flicking two fingers toward himself with the intent of stowing her purchase.

“So, what exactly is the plan here?” she asks, handing over the box. “I don’t know what all of this entails short of you crawling under vehicles.”

“Oi, it’s more than that, y’know. I crawl over ‘em, too.” Junkrat grabs a hold and stashes it upright against the sidecar’s seat, tucked against the far most corner. “As for a plan, well, reckon we got us a bit of scrounging to do. Might head back to where I left them parts, but I got a feeling nothing useful’ll be left. Somebody always grabs the good stuff. Got a couple other places in mind that might have a clunker or two, but nothing’s real concrete, right. More… metal.”

Seeming satisfied with himself, he flashes a wide grin, twin glitters of gold winking at her from between his teeth. The morning sun drenches him in warm waterfalls as he stands over her from the sidecar, and his shock of hair stirs beneath the caresses of a warm sea breeze. He stretches out his arm for her, his open palm crissed with broken heartlines and healing calluses kissing the pads of his fingers. The bruise that had once soaked his knuckles has faded from their sharp crests and sunk into the paleness beneath where his glove had left its encompassing mark.

“C’mon,” he says, amber eyes aflame with mischievous delight. “Let’s have us a ride, yeah? We’ll window shop ‘til tea.”

Settled back in Junkrat’s lap, Satya sits with a rigid posture as Roadhog drives them through Gibraltar’s sunbleached streets. The motorcycle’s appearance continues to draw unnecessary attention from locals and tourists alike, but once he maneuvers away from bustling avenues and populated plazas, the presence of others poses less of an issue. She had assumed that Roadhog only knew of the primary points of interest throughout the town below the Rock, and yet his wordless navigation of the roads suggests otherwise. Then again, now that she thinks about it, Junkrat has managed to construct three separate RIP-tires, which must have taken at least three trips—one for each engine.

Honestly, it’s a wonder they haven’t been arrested. Have they always done this sort of thing in broad daylight? It’s ridiculous, and not to mention all flavors of illegal. Who _does_ things like this?

Apparently her, comes the afterthought, and she doesn’t know if her silent acquiescence would count as sanction and mark her as an accomplice or not. She cradles her forehead in her hand at the thought of having to contact Winston from the local holding house and request bail not only for herself, but for Junkrat and Roadhog as well.

What on earth is she getting herself into?

When they approach the dilapidated street where Satya had found Junkrat sprawled beneath the jalopy, Roadhog slows the bike and peers ahead at the cracked brick that cobbles together the flanking housing units and the various vehicles that have been parked by the roadside. It takes a few moments until they come across the derelict and corroded automobile that had provided Junkrat’s lost haul, but when it edges into sight, Junkrat knocks his fist on Roadhog’s belly.

“Whoa, whoa, hang on, hold up, there she is, there she is!” He leans out from behind Satya, his chest pressing against the curve of her back. His prosthetic has tightened around her in what she assumes to be excitement, and she can feel the taut strain of his abdomen as he cranes forward to get a better look.

Heat flushes up her neck with Junkrat’s trilling laughter by the shell of her ear. She should have known better than to allow herself to be in this situation, she thinks. Her body’s reaction to the thought while beside him in the showers was more than enough reason to avoid this altogether, and yet here she is.

“Oi, love, pop up a tick, would you?” He gives her a series of quick, gentle pats on her stomach. “Gotta have me a proper look.”

Satya, more than willing to oblige, grips onto the sidecar’s front and rises to her feet. Junkrat slings up right behind her, body flush with hers, and then he steps onto the seat and launches himself out of the enclosure. She struggles with a particularly stubborn breath as she watches him clear the distance between the motorcycle and the jalopy, and when he reaches its rust ridden hull, he stoops down to his hands and knees and begins to crawl beneath.

Sinking back down to the greyed upholstery of the sidecar’s seat, Satya averts her eyes to the extensive faces of brick. His shabby patchwork shorts are not the most flattering piece of clothing, but bent over and shuffling on his belly, they frame his backside rather well. She bites at the inside of her mouth with too much force; she has no idea why she’s allowing herself to think this way, and it’s absolutely maddening.

“Ace! We’re in business!” Junkrat gives a thrilled whoop from the car as he shuffles himself out. Clambering to his feet, his mouth is wide with an incredibly pleased smile, and he makes his way back to the sidecar with a spring in his step. “Wouldn’t you know it, still got some good bits left over. Looks like whatever dipstick came through here couldn’t tell arse from elbow. ‘Course, still missing some of the important stuff, but was counting on all this being nabbed anyway, so I’m not gonna whinge about it.”

Junkrat plants his prosthetic on the edge of the car and leans in, his good hand reaching down by her legs. Satya shifts them aside so he can get to his stashed rucksack, entirely too focused on the thin material of his ruddy tank straining over the wrought muscle in his back. The light brush of his arm by her calf wrangles an electric jolt through her limbs, and she curls her fingers into fists to fend off the encompassing sensation of anxiety webbing in between her bones.

“There we go.” He wrenches up the pack past her knees and hauls it over his shoulder before settling an elbow against the sidecar. “Gonna have a decent haul from this one by the look of it. Not as good as before, right, but better than nothing. Might try to find another just to round things off. Make it nice and even.” Junkrat eyes her, mirth flaring through brilliant amber and curving at his lips. “Sit tight, yeah? Won’t be too long. Did most of the work meself before we got run out, so not too much left to do.”

“We have until noon,” she reminds him, shaping her voice with punctuated words and rigid formality to quash back her vulnerabilities. “I do not want to spend an entire afternoon out here. I need to continue my work on our team’s communicators back at the outpost.”

“I know, I know. No worries, love. I got stamina, but I know when to be quick.” He winks at her before loping back toward the gutted jalopy.

She sits there, speechless. That should not have stirred her heartrate, she thinks, pressing her nails into the flesh of her palm. That should not have caused warmth to rise through her cheeks and down her neck, and it most certainly should not have rocketed a twinge of heat in her lower belly. That should not have summoned the fractured image of him naked on the shower bench, peeling down the white swath of towel from his hips, and it should not have shown his hand sloping southward along a coarse trail of dark blond.

Satya bolts upright and out of her seat. A hot, extended breath is held within the spaces of her lungs, and she cannot bring herself to release it. Determined to shove anything and everything about him from every recess of her mind, she jerks her gaze away from Junkrat and she swings a leg over the edge of the sidecar. She drops to the street, sandals against cracked and baking stonework, and she starts walking.

There is no procedure for this, she thinks. There isn’t. Her mental exercises are ineffectual, her coping mechanisms useless, and any attempt to scramble for new ones would be moot. She has no way to mitigate the coiling simmer down below; all she can think to do is extricate herself from the situation entirely so it no longer holds power over her and so she might have a chance to recover and clear her head.

She proceeds about fifteen steps from the motorcycle before she hears the plodding movement of Roadhog behind her. Releasing a captured breath, she chooses to ignore it and keeps her eyes to the buildings ahead. While interacting with Junkrat is perhaps her least desired thing at the current moment, interacting with Roadhog comes as a rather close second. As an exercise, she purges the unwanted intrusions from her mind and focuses on the schematic of the newest model teleporter, mentally tracing through each layered sheet and over every minute detail that she’d sketched over smooth blue pages. It does little to banish Junkrat from her mind’s peripheral, but it helps ward away the noise.

Satya reaches the end of the block before taking pause. It’s not far enough, she thinks, not by a long shot, but she can no longer see Junkrat without maneuvering herself around parked automobiles, so she supposes it will have to do. The echo of Roadhog’s footsteps resounding off of baking brick and chiseled mortar has not ceased; it mirrors the hammering drum of her heart with stunning similarity. She glances over her shoulder to see the mountainous man trailing her with a ponderous gait, a hardcover book of some kind clutched in one of his great hands. Despite the concealing presence of his mask, she is certain his gaze is fixated on her, and the thought makes her wish she could meld down between the cracks among the stones beneath her feet.

“Is there something I can help you with?” An edge hones into her voice to weld the composure of her outer façade. She is not flustered, it says. She has not been thinking about his boss, it says. And she most certainly has not been enjoying any of the necessary physical contact she has shared with said boss.

Roadhog does not deign her with a reply. He continues his strides and draws up to her with little concern. When he reaches her side, he simply flattens his upturned palm to open his book, and thumbs to the appropriate page. The cover is worn, pressed, its materials eroding along the corners and down the length of its spine. It is shaded a deep, royal blue, and there are elegant intricacies across its surface wrought in faded gold. The title _Master & Commander_ is etched into one of the blocks of designs—a nautical novel?—its text crisp, clean, and shaped in the capital letters of a smooth serif font. Its age is apparent by folded dog-ears and the saturnine tarnish of its pages, but he seems to have taken care of the book quite well.

“I’m sorry, did you not hear me?” Satya peers up at him under the glare of the morning sun. Drops of perspiration adorning the expanse of his impossibly broad shoulders, and she marvels at the sheer wonder of his towering height. “Is there a reason you are following me? I promise you, I am not going far, and I plan on returning. I have little desire to make the trek back to the outpost on foot.”

Roadhog turns the page. His spiked tail of platinum hair glitters a molten silver under the warm shafts of the sun. His breaths hold a steady cadence, and his posture is curved and casual to accommodate his reading. Well, as casual as a seven-foot colossus could possibly seem, she supposes. With his face obscured and his stoic body language about as useful to her as a sieve would be for drawing water, she has no way to interpret his response (or lack thereof), and it grates at her nerves.

“I see.” Satya smooths out her dress and pulls in a thin breath. “Well, I am going to continue walking. I feel restless. Are you going to follow me?”

There is a slight downward movement of his head, which she can only assume is a nod.

“Should you not be watching him instead?” she asks. “I was under the impression that it was your job to keep him out of trouble. What if someone spots him?”

With his free hand, Roadhog gestures in a glib dismissal. Whether that means he believes Junkrat fully capable of looking after himself or whether he simply has no preference on whether a bystander reports his friend’s illegal activity, she can’t be certain. Regardless, it seems Roadhog is intent on accompanying her, and it is a very sobering thought. Her discomfort curls down to her marrow and grips tight.

“I will not be going far,” she insists, a last attempt to persuade him to leave her be. “Perhaps another block or two, and then I will turn back. You do not need to do this.”

His solemn motionlessness and the full engrossment in his book suggest he does not care either way.

Exasperated, Satya turns on the ball of her foot and proceeds down the length of another block. Since it is clear that there is no stopping him, further attempts would be nothing but wasted breath on her part. Whatever motive he has for tailing her, it surely must take precedence over her own autonomy. The sound of his plodding footsteps starts again somewhere at her back, and she turns her focus inward back to the libraries of schematics she has stashed away among her mind’s curving contours.

Unfortunately, the warmth that pools in her lower belly has not fully abated. Amid careful white pencil lines and crisp blue planes of schematic sheaves and the pleasing orderly gridwork that suffuses them both, the image of Junkrat climbs up and crests the waves of all of her other thoughts as they meet their sinking lulls. Her attempts to shove him out prove fruitless; if anything, they _encourage_ him, however impossible that seems for an imaginative figment, and then she finds that the current occupant of her mind’s eye is staring at her half clothed from a hill of crumpled schematics, his lengthy tongue pressed between his teeth and a scorching fire smoking in the amber of his eyes.

Satya forces a swallow. This is not what she had planned.

She somehow manages to keep her cool for three excruciating blocks before she decides that she should turn around before she wanders all the way to the other side of town. With the heat of the sun soaking down over her shoulders, she passes by Roadhog, who appears to be split between following and reading, and she begins to make her way back to the motorcycle. Sweat drips down her neck and curves between the valley of her breasts, and it occurs to her that she hasn’t had anything to drink since earlier this morning when she had dropped into the kitchen to nab something small for breakfast. Dryness squeezes at her throat between the sunbaked bricks and the intensifying heat of the late morning, and she entertains the idea of stopping for tea a touch earlier than anticipated.

“Exactly how steadfast is Junkrat’s decision to find another vehicle to… scrap?” she asks, taking a glance over her shoulder.

There is a partial expectancy for Roadhog to outright ignore the question, but he doesn’t. Instead, he looks up from his book, shrugs his massive shoulders, and then peers back down again. At least he decided to use a gesture with a clear connotation this time around, she supposes, and if that’s the best she’s going to get, she might as well appreciate it.

Thankfully, Roadhog’s overpowering presence manages to squelch Junkrat from her thoughts on the way back. While she finds it unusual that Roadhog would choose to take a bullet for her, she finds it especially unusual that he would decide to shadow her as if she were an overgrown child. The bullet would be easily explained through his purpose as a bodyguard, she thinks, but the latter? It makes little sense to her, and the only explanation she can cobble is the fact that Junkrat had said she was his friend—which, somehow, would make her Roadhog’s friend (and charge) by proxy?

What an odd thought.

By the time she reaches the motorcycle again, Junkrat seems to have finished his scavenging and is now hauling whatever he can into the rucksack he’d brought. He sits down on his haunches, the silver handle of a wrench tucked between his teeth, gathering fistfuls of metal and interwoven ringlets and what looks to be a set of disassembled pistons.

Had he completely dismantled the car’s engine before scooping it out piece by piece? she wonders, frowning at the filling pack. Is that even possible to do in twenty minutes? She hasn’t the slightest idea, and she doesn’t know whether she should be impressed or not.

Junkrat gathers his tools with surprising haste. He snatches them between metal fingers and greased knuckles, and he shoves them in one of the pouches by his waist before stuffing the rest in with the bits and bobs of the engine and whatever miscellaneous parts he had previously worked out of the vehicle. Satya waits for him by the sidecar, arms folded, and when he approaches with the rucksack slung over his shoulder, she realizes that despite his moderately clean self, his hands and trousers are a mess.

She eyes his shorts with distaste. “I am not sitting on that.”

Junkrat lifts his haul into the sidecar’s bottom. The scraps within clank together amidst his movement, and the bag drops a loud and shuddering _thump_ upon landing. “Sitting on what?”

“You.” She points to the dirt that has collected by his knees and the faint grease smudge on his right thigh. “I am not going to commandeer more of Mercy’s stain remover.”

He glances down at himself. “Oh. Well, that’ll do it.”

Biting at his lip, Junkrat leans back into the sidecar and digs around the bottom. She can hear the soft clinking noises of displaced grenade shells and the crinkle of the discarded crisps bag, and then the distinct sound of the rucksack being dragged aside. His back and shoulders coil taut under the movements, and she becomes painfully aware of how close he is.

“Ah, here we go.” He pulls up one of the bundled cloths he had borrowed from Torbjörn’s space in the workshop. Gingerly, he then starts to scrub at his hands in a meticulous sort of fashion she never would have expected from him. He scours the dips between his fingers, the waves of his knuckles, the carved lines along his palm, and then he wipes clean the machinery of his right hand.

After he’s finished, the cloth has become a healthy shade of grey. He balls it up and tosses it back in the sidecar before reaching in and snatching the final cloth, now with significantly cleaner hands. Bearing a broad grin, he drapes it over his shorts as if it were some sort of apron.

“See?” he says. “I got you covered.”

Satya fights a smile. “I think you have _you_ covered.”

“That, too.” His laugh is contagious, and she swears it shouldn’t be.

Once Roadhog stows his book and starts up the motorcycle again, Junkrat climbs into the sidecar and shoves all of their acquired items aside, attempting to make room for his lanky legs. A few muttered curses and some aggressive shifting later, he pops back up again, Torbjörn’s cloth draped over his shoulder. Satya watches him with an amused smirk, and when he catches her gaze, he leans forward and props his elbows on the sidecar’s edge.

“Need a lift?” he asks, waggling his fingers in cheeky salutation.

She snickers behind her hand. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“Ah, now that ain’t no way to go about it,” he says. “Let’s say it’s teamwork, right? Always sounds better that way.”

Satya isn’t going to argue.

Junkrat reaches out to help her in. He curls an arm around her waist while his good hand laces through hers and lifts her with little effort. Her breath lodges down in a lump within her throat as she crests the sidecar’s edge, and when her sandals touch the floor, she works down a swallow in hopes of prying it free. Beside her, Junkrat sinks to the seat and tugs the cloth from his shoulder, splaying it over his lap to cover the extent of his right thigh. He beckons her to sit with curled fingers.

“So, did you find what you needed?” Satya dusts the folds of her dress and gathers them together to prevent other potential smudges before lowering herself onto his lap.

“Eh, for the most part.” As if purely habit, he snakes his prosthetic by her belly and tucks her close. “Missing a couple key pieces, though. Somebody made off with ‘em. Knew I shoulda just grabbed ‘em before we left the other day. Still, not a big problem or anything. Could just pop under any old clunker and do a bit of fixing, as it were. Reckon it wouldn’t take too long.”

“Then would you mind if we were to stop for tea a little early?” She tucks a stray lock of hair by her ear, attempting to keep her back straight and her shoulders even. The warmth of his body is welcoming, even under the glare of the late morning sun, and the last thing she needs is to feel his heartbeat.

“Sure. Don’t see why not. Could use a cuppa myself.” He glances over to Roadhog and nudges him in the side. “What d’you think, mate?”

Roadhog nods, a deep grunt serving as his only verbal reply.

“Oi, you remember that little hole in the wall we found a couple weeks back? Somewhere closer to the beach, I’d thought.” Junkrat scratches at his chin, eyebrows drawn together in pensive reflection. “Or maybe that was something else. Coulda just been that tourist joint. You know what I’m talking ‘bout, right?”

Without a word, Roadhog settles his hands on the grips and steers the motorcycle from the edge of the curb. As they pull away from the remnants of the car Junkrat had just gutted, Satya hears him laugh behind her, and its timbre drops a soft tremble down her backbone.

“Real chatty bloke, ain’t he,” he says. “Promise, he ain’t always this talkative. Almost enough to make your ears fall off.”

Satya turns her head and frowns at him through her peripheral. “But he hasn’t said a word.”

Junkrat chuckles in a swaying lilt. “That’s the joke,” he says. “Just missed it. Went right over your head. Looks like I’ll have to aim a little lower next time.”

“There is no need,” she says. “I understand it now.”

“What, sarcasm not your strongest language?”

“No, it is not,” she replies, spoken entirely in fluid Telugu, “but I am going to assume it is yours.” It is distinct and rustlike on her tongue—it has been too long, she thinks—but she remembers it rather well from her youth. Although English presides over most of her vocabulary, it is difficult to completely overhaul the linguistic coding of one’s mother tongue.

Junkrat sits behind her in nonplussed silence. His grip at her waist slacks, and from the corner of her eye, she watches him as he opens his mouth to reply only to close it, open it, and then close again after a final thought. It provides her a brief twist of satisfaction behind her breastbone, and as she recalls the moment he had been staring at her in the hangar, she makes a point to bring one leg over the other and shift the pressure of her backside flush with him.

“The hell’d you say,” he manages, sounding significantly less composed than five seconds ago. Perhaps it’s the sun, but his freckles are backed beneath a faint smudge of pink, and his body seems to tense beneath her.

Satya purses her lips in a smirk. “I do not know what you mean. I didn’t say anything at all.”

The remainder of the drive is spent in pleasant quiet save for the motorcycle’s constant purr and the wavering thrum of neighboring automobiles on the narrow roads. Junkrat seems to have been humbled by his own flavor of joke, and so he refrains from any further attempts at sarcasm for the duration of the ride. His presence at her back has retreated to a degree, she finds; he has himself situated against the seat’s greyed backing, pressed quite close with its warm vinyl, and it feels as though his arm cups at her waist out of sheer necessity. A good thing, perhaps, if she had not admitted to herself that she had been enjoying the contact not half an hour ago.

Is this really frustration? she wonders, crunching her fingers into fists upon her lap. The concept is not at all foreign to her, but it has only arisen with projects, items, physical things, herself, her own performance; rarely has it been in the context of being frustrated with another person, and especially not in this manner. There have been too few scenarios in the last several years where she would consider entertaining such close contact with another person, and none of them would have come anywhere close to this.

It is absurd, she decides. All of it. Every single last bit. She should not have reacted in any of the ways she has, and the fact that actually she has infuriates her. The level on which she enjoys Junkrat’s company (there it is, the truth, and it’s _terrible_ ) is something well beyond her coping skills. She had never imagined her ways of stabilizing herself would be so primitive and ineffectual when faced with something of this caliber, and it grates at her in all of the wrong ways.

Satya Vaswani, stoic creator of order and Vishkar’s prodigy child, has been rendered a flustered mess by a bomb loving lunatic.

Absolutely _absurd._

As Roadhog hooks another turn, Satya is jarred from her predicament at the sight of a long strip of brilliant sprawling shops. Not only is the tea shop close to the beach, it also appears to be down one of the primary promenades just a short skip or two from the seaside. The rolling of the waves swells beneath the engine’s steady grind, and the caws of seagulls soar overhead. While the crowds here seem to thicken considerably, the bike seems to have its own sort of repellant (or perhaps that is Roadhog himself), and when Roadhog draws up to the seafoam white curbside a slight hop away from the shop, locals and tourists alike disperse from the immediate area. An upside to having two seedy looking men as companions, she supposes. She isn’t going to question it.

Roadhog switches off the motorcycle and pockets the keys. Before she can ask whether he is going to accompany them inside, he twists about and reaches for one of the bags strapped onto the back of the bike. He opens one’s flap, he pulls out the thick novel he had been reading earlier, and settles it over top of the yellow fuel tank as he flips to find his lost page.

“You gonna get up anytime soon?” Junkrat asks.

“That was the plan,” she replies, and gathers her dress before rising to her feet. After glancing behind her to make sure that his mess hadn’t somehow transferred to her clothes, she nudges past him and lifts herself out of the sidecar with some effort.

The clustered shops have a quaint atmosphere with white stone sides and wooden doorways cresting their storefronts. Just ahead is a svelte little place, ‘ _The Tea Leaf_ ’ painted across its windows in a thin, cursive font with delicate curls on the capitals. Dark metal chairs and tables flank either side of its entrance, and she draws close and peers inside with interest. From what she can see through the glare of the glass, it has a café like appearance within. Clusters of tables line the sides, and there is a long counter showcasing a number of pastries, biscuits, and crackers to accompany the boxed displays of various teas along the walls.

“Not bad, yeah?” Junkrat lopes up beside her, running his good hand through thick shocks of blond. “Roadie found it a while back. He’s got a soft spot for stuff like this. Don’t go telling him I said that, though. He won’t like it much, and your little spot in the workshop might find itself all rearranged.”

“There will not be a repeat of your first visit,” she says, providing him with a cool gaze. “I have no desire to clean up more of your messes.”

“Oi, not messes, right,” he says. “There’s a reason for it. I can find stuff better if it’s all laid out. Can see everything that way. Just makes sense, y’know. It’s got its own system.”

“Disorganization is not a system.” Satya steps toward the door and tugs it open by the handle. “Well, shall we?”

“That we shall,” he says, doing his best to mimic what she assumes he believes to be both proper speech and a proper accent.

Unfortunately for him, it is neither, and she finds herself stifling a laugh behind her palm.

Inside, the air conditioning engulfs her with a chilly burst. Gooseflesh ripples down her arms as she holds the door for Junkrat. The air is laden with the saccharine scent of sweets and the strong aroma of something herbal, and it faintly plucks at the memories of the charming tea shop in Utopaea at the back of her mind, drawing down a warm drape of comfort about her shoulders. Junkrat’s footsteps spur her toward the front counter, and as her sandals scuff across the dark wooden panels of the floors, her eyes wander among the numerous collections of teas showcased amongst small stretches of shelving and propped up on miniature displays that flank the pastry case.

“Hello, hello, _buenos días_ , my friends.” The clerk is a shorter man, graced with a stocky build, broad shoulders, and thick hair that has been sunsoaked from brunet to a tentative blond. He draws up from behind the counter, clad in a black button up and pressed slacks, and offers a pleasant smile. “Is there something I can help you with? Perhaps something in particular you had in mind?”

Satya can spot clusters of sprinkled biscuits, tiny iced cakes, and fruit-filled strudels among the assorted fare. It reminds her of her woefully light breakfast, and she is tempted to snag one of the cakes. “You sell teas by the box or tin, correct?”

“Yes, that is correct,” he says, and gestures behind him to some of the shelved teas. “Of course, you can try them before you purchase. I have samples here and there. Or, if you are so inclined, you can always pay per cup. I’m sure you have noticed, but our pastries are an option as well.” His voice is smooth, fluid, flawless; an immeasurable quality. While his accent is distinctly Spanish in structure, it has the melodic sort of lilt that reminds her of an erudite young Spaniard she had met among Vishkar’s academy. José had not excelled at manipulating hard-light, but he was masterful at complex architecture; two of Utopaea’s largest buildings were constructed by virtue of his elegant designs.

Lacing her hands, Satya peers up at the varying boxes. She knows she wants to bring something for Ana as thanks for keeping her company, but she doesn’t know what kind she would enjoy. A printed menu hangs in the back spaces over the shelving, and she scans over the listed names in hopes of finding something for the retired sniper until something catches her eye—a series of iced teas toward its very end. If Junkrat would like anything here, she supposes, a cold tea would appeal to him more than Assam or Earl Grey or one of the varying hot herbal blends.

Suddenly reminded that she hasn’t heard a peep out of him since they entered the shop, she glances over her shoulder in a half panicked state only to find him sniffing around the displays. He paws through the boxes until one hooks his attention, and then he lifts it between a thumb and forefinger as he squints down at the small texts along its back. He scans pieces of the room between boxes, seeming more interested in the tiny decorations and knickknacks than any of the other furniture.

Somewhat relieved that he hasn’t managed to destroy anything, she turns back to the clerk. “I would like two glasses of the raspberry black to-go, if possible. A box of the Darjeeling there, and one of the spiced chai.” And then, after eyeing the pastry case for the third time, “One of the chocolate cake pieces as well, please.”

“Certainly,” he says. “The iced may take a moment or two, though.”

“That won’t be a problem. We will wait.”

“Would you like the cake first?”

Satya stares at it through the glass. The cake itself looks delectable, and the thin drizzles of icing over top cause her mouth to water. “I would appreciate it.”

Her willpower is less than stellar today. She has to indulge herself _somehow_.

After the clerk collects a box of Darjeeling and a box of spiced chai into a bag, he returns to the front counter with a small plate topped with the chocolate cake and accepts her personal card for payment. If she had been under Vishkar’s banner for the duration of her time in Gibraltar, she might be able to get away with landing corporate with charges for tea and cake, but that would not be the case here.

As the raspberry black is prepared, Satya slides off a small slice of the cake with the provided fork and pops it in her mouth. It is much richer than she’d imagined, and she decides it is enough to satisfy the craving. She manages to get two bites in before she feels Junkrat standing behind her shoulder.

“Can I help you?” she asks, preferring to keep her gaze on the smooth planes of icing. There is no reason to humor him with attention right now.

“Yeah. Yeah, actually, I think you can.” She can _feel_ the grin in his voice, all hubris and bluster and swagger, and without warning, he snakes his good arm beneath hers to nab a sizable crumb from the cake. “Oh, this’ll help plenty.”

“That isn’t for you, Junkrat.” She swats at him with the fork, but it does little to deter him from sneaking yet another piece under her arm. “Stop it.”

“But we’re mates now,” he says, and licks down the pad of his thumb to attend to a stray smear of chocolate. “Sharing’s caring, right? Or something like that. Don’t really know the saying. All’s I know is it means I get a piece.”

“Except that makes three.” She catches him by the wrist mid-swipe and cranes her neck to give him a heavy glare. “You do realize you are being incredibly irritating, do you not?”

“You ain’t so blameless,” he says. It’s apparent from the lean muscle roping through his arm that he could easily overpower her grip and eat his stolen crumb, but he doesn’t. Instead, he freezes in place, right where she holds him, and he stares down at her with a degree of satisfaction lacing the gold in his smile. “‘Sides, some of the real good parts was missing from that engine. I think that earns me a bite or three. Drop of chocolate for me troubles.”

Satya releases an exasperated sigh. “If I give you a decent slice, will you stop trying to steal more?”

“Maybe.” He laughs, the wild mania she recognizes from the delight he takes in explosions pressed and prominent throughout his tone. “Won’t know ‘til you hand it over, will you? I’d say you got a good shot. Fifty-fifty. Eh, maybe sixty-forty, in your favor.”

Keeping the metal joints of her gauntlet enclosed around his wrist, she cuts off a generous piece with the side of her fork and spears it between its prongs. Without another thought, she turns and holds it up for him to take. Of course, she had expected he would simply take a step back and accept it with his prosthetic like any other person would, but no—instead, he dips downward, his chest pressed against her shoulder blades, and he descends upon it with an open mouth. A hum of pleasure in his throat, he slowly draws off of the fork and licks at the corners of his lips to catch any lingering chocolate. He follows it up with his good hand dropping the crumb he’d held on the flat of his tongue ( _when on earth had she let him go?_ ) and eyeing her with the single most conceited smirk she has ever seen throughout the duration of her professional career—and when one has to work with reticent mayors and stonewalling city councils, that is saying a _lot_.

“Cheers,” he says, and draws his thumb at the corner of his mouth to clear away any extra. “I reckon you’re safe from further snatching. For a while, anyway. No guarantees. Best not let that sit around, though. Might be back for more.”

Before she can manage to structure a semi-coherent reply in her head amongst all of the suffocating thoughts of him in the showers or his tongue tracing his teeth or whatever he just did to that helpless piece of cake, the clerk returns to the counter with two plastic cups, each donned with a lid and dark pink liquid within. Eating the rest of the cake is short, hasty, and utterly mechanical; she scoops in two mighty bites and leaves the fork upon the little saucer before grabbing her cup and the bag of teas and ushering herself to a prompt exit.

“Oi, hey, wait, where you off to?” Tea in hand, she can hear him come after her, the scuff- _thump_ of his foot and peg against the wooden floor. “Thought we was staying?”

“I need some air,” she says, and pushes through the tea shop door.

The heat is thick and enveloping, but it is something else sensory she can focus on to herd her thoughts toward more constructive things. The swelling murmurs of the crowds strolling down the length of the promenade rolls in around her, and she cannot believe she is using one of the things she dislikes the most as a form of distraction and solace.

Bringing the cup to her lips, she sips through the punched slot in the lid and drains two quick gulps of crisp raspberry. It isn’t quite as good as she had hoped, but she supposes it will suffice, and so she takes another long drink from the cup to slake the thirst lining her throat. It’s comfort, fresh and cold on her tongue, and as she scans the strip soaked in sweltering sunshine, a distant part of her yearns for a day at the beach below the promenade. It would be something to get away from this insanity—from him, from Overwatch, from Vishkar, from everything, but _him_ the most—and she knows she is in sore, sore need of it.

Junkrat steps up beside her. The warm sea breeze threads through his hair and the tangible sunheat coats his skin with smouldering bronze. After squinting at the tea inside his cup, he takes a tentative sip, and then tilts it back in a hearty swig.

“Not bad,” he admits, adam’s apple bobbing in a swallow. “Not bad at all. Might have to pay ‘em another visit.” His left foot taps against the stone sidewalk in a rhythmic tic, a cadence to bring beneath the late morning murmurs of the streets, and she pools all of her focus into the surrounding sounds to distance herself from him. “Wouldn’t mind showing you my like, though. If we can find a place. Dunno if you like sweets at all, but bubble tea really hits the spot. Starting to miss it something chronic.”

“You have a sweet tooth?” she asks, entirely out of reflex.

“Yeah. Big one. Real big one.” He grins, flashing two specks of brilliant gold. “What, you couldn’t tell?”

Satya pauses for a moment, prying apart the question, and then resists the urge to bury her palm against her forehead. She supposes the chocolate cake definitely should have tipped her off, and if not that, then the sweet teas and the cookies he’d snatch from the kitchen—but they didn’t. She hadn’t been _thinking_. It’s as if the logical parts of her have buried themselves between her lungs in stunned silence, unable to parse him or her or words or… or _anything_.

Never has she felt such a number of vicious conflicting reactions within herself, and she _hates_ it.

Junkrat beckons after him with two metal fingers as he makes his way back to Roadhog and the motorcycle. He sips at his tea, ruddy tank top stuck to hard muscle and freckled shoulders glistening with new beads of perspiration under the late morning sunlight. His gait is odd and his demeanor is insufferable and he’s obsessed with explosives and he’s an utter mess in all senses of the word, and yet there is no questioning the fact that he is, unfortunately, an attractive man.

When she gathers her composure at last and follows him to the sidecar, she decides that nothing like this can ever happen again. She cannot be in such close physical contact, she cannot spend more time with him than necessary, she cannot be _friends_ , and she absolutely cannot be alone with him. Each is a ticking component that could forge something disastrous, and she has no desire to see any of it come to fruition.

In Junkrat’s lap, she keeps herself rigid and still. She holds her tea with her left hand squarely in the safety of her lap, her other hand clasped on the sidecar’s metal edge. The motorcycle’s roar is an endless thrum in her ears, and although it is loud and uncomfortable and jarring, she lets it rumble through her bones and coil down to kiss her marrow.

Something must make this end, she thinks. Something _must_.

Junkrat’s prosthetic sets at her waist, pressed into the fabric of her dress. It is anything but inappropriate, but it flourishes anxiety down the firm arc of her backbone. It is close, intimate, nothing she’d wanted, and yet it somehow constructs a bursting swell of _this is safe_ and _things will be fine_ back between the spindles of her ribs.

Gingerly, he shifts behind her. His arm rests at her side, and his metal hand is a pleasant pressure at her belly.

Satya clenches her fists, chagrined and afraid.

Her thoughts have drifted to sliding her hand over his own, and she doesn’t know how she is supposed to cope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art that has been made for this chapter by SUCH AMAZING LOVELY PEOPLE on tumblr -
> 
> @crayoncat-art - [the shirt](http://crayoncat-art.tumblr.com/post/149824567419/im-sure-this-happened-in-vargrimars-fic-your)  
> @nervmaid - [the dress](http://nervmaid.tumblr.com/post/149730795659/nervmaid-this-was-the-dress-i-pictured-her-in) | ["the hell'd you say"](http://nervmaid.tumblr.com/post/149482622109/heh)  
> @maribopuppy - [the dress](http://maribopuppy.tumblr.com/post/149499599477/what-i-imagined-symmetras-summer-dress-is-from)  
> @hamlinart - [caught!](http://hamlinart.tumblr.com/post/149820179675/some-very-quick-sketchbook-doodles-from-vargrimar)


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. This is the Third Thing That Must Be.  
> 2\. It is far more exciting than the Second, and it's been a long time coming.  
> 3\. Really. Please don't kill me.
> 
>   _All I want is to know your name_  
>  _and whisper it in your ear_  
>  _with your arms around my neck_  
>  _You've haunted me in colors I've never seen_  
>  _I feel strange and unprotected,_  
>  _[but I'm weightless like I'm falling on the moon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IJFUscwZIvk)_

Satya seeks shelter on the compound rooftops as the sun bleeds orange over the ocean.

Stair after stair, she ascends the world with a sheaf of blueprints clutched in her hand. The white-gold of her dress folds and unfurls with each step, and when she pries open the door, she pulls a shuddering inhale through the spaces of her lungs, soaking in the soft sea breeze and the lingering warmth that sticks through tentative caresses and swathing summer air. She lets the distant crash of the waves anchor her to the metal beneath her sandals and the burning horizon press kisses to her eyelids.

This is one place Junkrat won’t tread. Despite his affinity for rooftops and other high places during their missions together, he avoids the ones overlooking the outpost grounds. Zenyatta has designated them his personal meditation spots, and unless the circumstances require it, anywhere the omnic is, Junkrat decidedly isn’t.

Satya hadn’t ever imagined herself being thankful for his prejudices, but she is today.

“Are you here to see Zenyatta?” Genji sits at the edge of the rooftop, legs folded and visor set toward the cream glitter of the ocean beyond jagged crags of rock. The thin wisp of graphite fabric threading from the back of his helm flutters in the passing winds, and the rest of his white, beige, and silver armor gleams with a warm orange beneath the start of the sinking sunset. Twin swords grace the expanse of his back, granting a somewhat intimidating presence.

“No,” she says. Her steps scuff across smooth metal as she draws closer to the roof’s edge. “I wanted a place to think.”

“Then you have come to the right place.” Genji squares his shoulders, his backbone in an even line. “It is peaceful here. It is not the monastery, but it is sufficient. Here, you feel as though you are removed from the world. It is a comforting feeling.”

Satya has to agree. There are few places in the compound where one can truly be alone, especially with Overwatch’s most recent additions. While there is still ample space for the team’s growth, there always seem to be others about, regardless of where she goes. The kitchen always seems to be occupied by one or two people, the workshop is home to Torbjörn and Junkrat, and the rec room is perpetually inhabited by either McCree, Reinhardt, or Tracer. With Morrison investing himself in revitalizing the old shooting range toward the back of the compound and with Ana flitting between Mercy and Mei among the infirmary and the barracks, she finds there is little room to be alone.

Since joining the junkers on their scrap run this morning, she has not had the opportunity to indulge in solitude. Shortly after exiting the hangar, Torbjörn had requested her assistance in supplementing part of the perimeter he had established in choice places about the outpost, and then Mei had found her just as she had settled in at the workshop to go over more designs for the team’s future communicator. Mercy had caught her on her way to the kitchen for water, McCree at her side, and it was then that he’d decided to regale them both with his tale of a peculiar train ride across the United States.

To make things worse, her composure is still cracked and rattled from spending time with Junkrat and Roadhog. Necessary physical contact and satisfied smiles and sunkissed shoulders had proven to be entirely too much to bear. While a shard of her took pleasure in settling in Junkrat’s lap and the encompassing warmth of his body, the rest of her was deeply unsettled at her own vulnerability. And she will make no mistake: it is vulnerability. She knows a flaw when she sees one. She is attuned to what can be perceived as imperfection and failure, and she will not allow something so insignificant to ruin her. Attraction does not have to impede upon her professional relationship, and she absolutely will not let it.

To say she is exhausted would be a severe understatement.

“My master has told me much of you,” says Genji. He twists in her direction, the usual vibrant green of his visor dimmed to a soft, muted glow. “He spoke of your courage and sense of conviction. He says you are a strong individual.”

For a moment, Satya does not know how to respond. Part of her is still back in Roadhog’s sidecar, trapped in a half embrace with Junkrat’s arm hooked about her waist; the rest is drifting between the cumulus clouds blotted beyond the sea. Her head feels stuffed with cotton and his voice is a buzzing drone among the rolling tide. She has to consciously tighten her fist to keep the blueprints from slipping away into the wind.

“I did not thank you for saving him when you were sent to rescue Mei. That was my mistake. It will be corrected.” Genji folds his hands together and dips forward in a slight bow. “My gratitude is endless. It means a great deal that you were willing to sacrifice yourself in order to preserve his life. Not many are willing to do such a thing for us.”

“Us?” The word takes her by surprise, and she repeats it out of bewilderment.

“Ah, perhaps that was a poor choice of word. I say _us_ because I do not fit into the category of human. I am not human, but I am not omnic. I am part man and part machine. An abomination in the eyes of many.” Slowly, Genji brings his hands back down to his thighs and turns toward the ocean once more. “That truth was a source of internal unrest for a long time. It took many years, but I was able to overcome it. Zenyatta helped me see that I am more than the sum of my components.”

Satya soaks in the stillness of the compound. Everything appears to have been captured under the molten touch of the sinking sun from the westward side of the Rock. The metallic siding of the clustered structures is encased in gleaming shades of orange and gold, the fractured shadows below encroaching their way across the grounds in a gradual glide. With the blueprints in her hand, she lowers herself to the rooftop at Genji’s side.

“He is a very wise individual,” she says. “I have spoken with him on two separate occasions. His world view is unique. And enlightening.”

“He is very wise,” Genji agrees. “I would not be who I am today had I not found him in my travels. I admit that I was not open to his views. Not at first. Learning to look at yourself in a different way is a difficult process. Accepting yourself as you are is an even more difficult process.”

Genji lifts his right hand, flexing and pulling as if to test the joints. A slot within his forearm shifts open; thin spindles of metal peer out from within. A set of sharp shuriken split from between, and he accepts them in silence. Fanning them among his fingers, they hold an orange sheen beneath the gaze of the sunset.

“Being human is harder than one would believe. Even for those who have not suffered my fate.” He thumbs the shuriken apart, one by one, and then launches them across the grounds in a single shot. The clink of metal biting metal sings between rooftops and sundrenched walls. “Sometimes, I feel that life asks too much of us. There are times when I would have given anything to return to my former state. There are times when I would have preferred Angela had left me to die. But then there are times when I am here, overlooking the world, and I am at peace.”

Satya watches as he shapes himself back into a meditative stance, back straight and palms resting upon his thighs. “Have you found balance?”

There is a brief pause while he considers the question. “No,” he replies. “No, not completely. I am still on that path. But I am farther than where I was five years ago. I am farther than I was one year ago. And I am farther than I was yesterday.”

“Progress is progress.” Tracing her thumbs across the smooth surface of the rolled blueprints, Zenyatta’s presence among the grassy outcroppings of the compound manifests in her mind’s eye. The intricate pair of prayer orbs burns in billowing auras of aurum and amethyst in the planes of his palms, and their fierceness burns beneath her eyelids. “Zenyatta said that paths are for walking. Even if your progress is slow, it is still progress. That is what is important.”

“Progress is progress,” he agrees. “It is important, but sometimes it is difficult to remember.”

With a gentle precision, Satya slides out the tie that binds her hair in its bun, slipping it around her wrist, and she allows heavy black waves to drape down her shoulders and across her back. The breeze unfurls through heavy locks and along her hairline, and she breathes in a sigh of relief.

“I would have you know I regret attacking your friend,” he says.

Satya’s brow furrows in puzzlement. “I’m sorry?”

“The bomber. The rat man.” Genji cranes his neck in a quarter turn to regard her with a quiet solemnity. “I see now that it was a mistake to lash out in such a manner. I should be used to how the world views omnics with my current state, but it is different with Zenyatta. Not only is he my teacher and mentor, he is very dear to me as a friend.” His fingers press into the metal of his armor by his knee, and he glances out toward the grounds with what appears to be guilt. “My anger overcame me on our arrival. We had recently passed through London to pay our respects, and it is no secret that England holds ill views on omnics.”

“His actions were poorly thought out at the time,” says Satya. “As are most actions are with him, now that I think of it. He antagonized both you and Zenyatta. It looked like he meant to do you harm. It was an unpleasant experience to witness, but I understand why you did what you did. It was not uncalled for. You were only defending what needed to be defended.”

“No,” says Genji. “He did not need to be defended. If the rat man had given him good reason, he would have taken action. Combat is a final resort. He would have defused the situation had I not stepped in.”

“You did what you thought was necessary. There is no regret in that.” Satya folds the blueprints in the crook of her arm and begins to trace the supple joints of her gauntlet. In the burrowed contours beneath her skull, the gasping ocean waves rocket up to meet her as she melds through the static blue of her portal. Junkrat clutches her waist with desperate ferocity and breathes incoherent syllables by her ear. “We do the unthinkable when danger threatens the things we care for. That is human, is it not?”

There is a pause of silence. Genji stares out beyond the facility walls and the rocky crags and the unfurling shadows that soak across the outpost’s faded paths and blunt architecture. The sea swells across the horizon in an enthralling calm, flush with melding palettes of gold and red, and it crashes against the jagged beaches below the Rock in an even cadence.

“That is human,” he admits at last.

Satya closes her eyes against the wind. Despite the lingering summer heat, everything has begun to cool in the evening’s wake. It brings gooseflesh down her bare arm and along her calves, and she finds herself regretting her choice of clothing. While it would be prudent of her to return to the barracks, dread threads like shrapnel through her veins at the thought of meeting Junkrat, and so here she remains with Genji at her side.

“It would be appreciated if you would extend my apology,” says Genji. His voice is a low murmur, nearly eclipsed by the distant tide. “I know he will refuse to engage in conversation with me, so I ask you in my stead. I understand the chance of the rat man accepting is low, but it will still be offered. It is in our team’s best interest if everyone remains amicable.” And then, after a moment, “In spite of our differences.”

“Broaching the subject may be difficult,” she says, remembering the potent purple bruise upon Junkrat’s throat, “but I will try.”

Genji grants her a slight nod in gratitude. “Thank you, Symmetra.”

“Harmony will benefit our group. Think nothing of it.” And yet she finds herself unsettled at the thought.

Satya steeps beneath the slow sunset in silence for several minutes until the rooftop door swings open. She peers over her shoulder to see Zenyatta’s lithe form padding through the threshold, shabby yellow robes encompassing the architecture of his chest, his arms, his waist. The ample sleeves pull with the wind as the ring of prayer orbs glide around his neck, and although facial expressions are an impossibility, the slight tilt of his head implies surprise.

“Greetings, Symmetra,” says Zenyatta. His synthesized voice is a soft, even melody, holding a tranquil note in its timbre. “I had not expected your presence this evening. Will you be joining our meditation session?”

“I’m afraid not.” She brings the blueprints into her hands once more and rises to her feet. “I only needed a place away from the others. I thought here would serve well enough.”

“I see.” A faint smile lines the shapes of his words. “Perhaps next time, then. It would please me to show you other meditative techniques, should you want to learn. A guided meditation through self-awareness and breathing exercises is but only one path to take.”

“I appreciate the tempting offer, but it will have to be another time. I need to start on a second draft for our team’s communicator with the input from this afternoon. Having a working model in time for our next deployment is paramount.” Satya glances to Genji, watching the thin cloth from his helm as it pirouettes among playful zephyrs. “Good night, Genji. Thank you for your company.”

“Good night,” he says, and offers a polite bow. “Thank you for yours.”

On her way toward the rooftop door, she takes pause by Zenyatta. “And good night to you.”

Zenyatta guides a single orb from his neck with a svelte finger. It emits a warm, calming gold around the elegant etchings of its body, suffusing the space around it with naked light. A distinct serenity enfolds her under its presence, reminiscent of the comfort of her bed or the pressure of her gauntlet or the molten amber of Junkrat’s eyes. It circles her in a clockwise motion before returning to its master with a delicate flourish.

“Good night, Symmetra,” says Zenyatta, and offers a mechanical wave of his hand. “I wish you luck in your endeavors. May peace be upon you.”

“Thank you,” she says. “You as well. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

The descent is faster than she would like, driven by autopilot as she tries to think of a place where she can continue her work with little to no chance of running into Junkrat. When she reaches the ground below, she glances upward toward the roof to see the thin glow of Zenyatta’s prayer orbs encircling the space between him and his student. It is faint, but she thinks she can hear a series of soft, dulcet tones over the rolling waves of the ocean.

After a brief period of meandering about the outpost grounds in absent deliberation, she finally settles on one of the lush outcrops that overlook the sea. It is a broad stretch of space, tucked behind one of the metal faces of facility buildings; due to the cliff side and the architecture’s space, the area is sequestered from the remainder of the compound and removed from plain sight. While it is definitely not the workshop with its comforts and amenities, she supposes she will have to make do with what is available, and so she tucks her dress beneath her legs and settles down over top the cool grass.

Beyond, the sun has sunk halfway across the horizon, the bright burn of an orange coin pressed into the darkening pastel sky. It is just before the cusp of twilight; stars have not yet begun to blot the world, and the moon has not carved through the brushed cream-soaked cumulus strokes overhead. The sea draws in and sinks back below in gradual breaths, and she focuses on the tranquility of her surroundings with a degree of relief.

She is safe here. She is _alone_. And she can decompress.

Tucking a stray lock behind her ear, Satya pulls a deep inhale and unrolls the blueprint set. There are seven pages in total, stapled at the top left-hand corner to prevent each individual sheet from straying off. Each holds either a design she’s attempted, or collections of her teammates’ various suggestions. The edges are curled and refuse to straighten, and so she snatches a few nearby pebbles to weigh down each corner.

Satya has no pencil, but she does not intend to edit any of the designs. Instead, she means to conjure a rudimentary model for her own use. This will let her see how it might fit over a user’s ear, and it will allow her to see how she can better integrate Gibraltar’s communication system within her own creations. While she enjoys the benefits of careful planning and structure that schematics provide, there can be no improvement unless there is a physical piece to test with.

Studying the dimensions of her initial prototype, Satya brings her hands together and poises them with her fingers pinched. She attempts to frame the design in her mind and how she might weave it into reality; wireframes spin together, connecting at the joints, slowly structuring the primary shape of the earpiece. There are segments she has to adjust in her mind’s eye to match those on the page, but before she can make the final alterations to the design between her palms, the distant sound of approaching footsteps disrupts her concentration.

It isn’t Genji, she realizes with startling clarity. It isn’t Zenyatta, either. Neither of them have such an erratic pacing, and instead hold a smooth, even pattern to their steps. It isn’t Mercy or Ana; the individual footsteps are too heavy to belong to someone with such a slight build. It isn’t Reinhardt, it isn’t Morrison, and it isn’t McCree; the overall weight is too light for any of the men, especially Reinhardt, whose size is particularly staggering.

Her heartbeat begins to pound upon the screen of her ribs, and the once placated knotting mess by her belly spurs back to a gradual, twisting writhe. The geometry poised so carefully among her hands fractures into something irreparable; with her teeth sinking into the back of her mouth, she wrenches her fingers away and slams them upon the blueprints. The sheets crinkle under the weight of her crunched palms, bunching gridwork and white pencil smudges together in rumpled spirals, and she allows herself a frustrated exhale.

She hasn’t the faintest idea why he’s here, but she hopes he will somehow take the hint and leave.

Gathering herself, she makes another attempt to shape her design into being when Junkrat’s steps halt a few feet behind her. She tries her best to shut out his presence, but her best is not quite good enough; despite channeling her focus into the wireframes that would create the communicator, her estimations and accuracy is not as it should be, and she cannot bring herself to conjure something that is so far from perfect.

“Is there something I can help you with?” Satya keeps the edge in her voice. He is intruding, encroaching upon her personal space, and unlike earlier, she has neither the capability nor the capacity for maintaining her composure.

“Been looking all over the damn base for you, y’know. You’re bloody hard to find when you wanna be.” A soft rustling sounds behind her ear, and then a plastic bag and its contents are settled over her head. “You was in such a rush to get to work, you went and left these behind. Reckon you might want ‘em back.”

Realization dawns on her. “The tea boxes,” she says.

“If you don’t want ‘em, I’m sure I’ll find some use.” Junkrat lifts the bag away, and by the creased sound of crinkling, he withdraws one of the packages from inside.

Satya glances over her shoulder. To her surprise, Junkrat not only still has the shabby red tank top shimmied over his chest, but he has also managed to keep himself remarkably clean for the past several hours. His posture is straighter than usual, showcasing the impressive display of his sheer height, and he holds the Darjeeling box at an angle to catch the light. His thick brows are pinched together as he combs over the words on the side of the packaging, his jaws set and the muscle in his neck taut from tilting his head in appraisal.

“Roadie likes this sort of stuff,” he remarks, giving the box a light shake. “Maybe he’d be interested.”

“I think not.” She twists halfway toward him and holds out an expectant palm. “Give them here.”

“You sure?” Junkrat reaches out with his left hand and plops the single box into her awaiting grasp. “Didn’t seem to care too much a while ago.”

“I had more pressing things on my mind,” says Satya. She sets the tea in the folds of her dress before extending her hand once more. “Come. The other. Preferably with the bag. It will give me less things to carry when I leave.”

Junkrat peers down at her, a roguish mirth burning through the amber of his eyes. Gentle breezes thread through the wildness of his hair, sloping along his temples and up his widow’s peak between unkempt shocks of blond. His stippled shoulders are burnished bronze beneath the horizon’s winekissed expanse, hard muscle shaping toward a prominent collarbone and a rigid abdomen beneath the scraggly material of his shirt. The bag’s thin ends are hooked around a single metal finger, and he lets it sway back and forth in a teasing manner, as if contemplating whether or not he should comply.

“Hmm.” A low, thoughtful hum rumbles in the thick of his throat. “What’s in it for me?”

Satya thins her mouth into a frown. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said—” Lips smudged into a grin, he flicks his wrist in a circular motion, and the bag follows suit into a spin through kinetic force, “—what’s in it for me?”

“You cannot be serious.” She regards him with a solemn stare. “Junkrat, it belongs to me. I paid for it. Now give it here.”

“Right. Sure. That might be true. Still, I think I deserve a little finder’s fee. Y’know, for the trouble of walking all over the bloody place looking for you.” He cocks an eyebrow as he gazes down at her. “Why you all the way out here, anyway? Workshop’s more suited for that sort of thing. Least I reckon so. Never seen you out here with all them little papers before.”

I wanted to avoid you, she doesn’t say, but she forces a swallow and says, “I wanted to be alone.”

“Oh.” Junkrat scratches at his scalp with his thumb. He lowers his prosthetic to his side, allowing the bag to dangle by his patchwork shorts. “Right. Well, you did a damn good job of it, that’s for sure. Finally caught sight of you when you was a couple buildings past the hangar. Probably wouldn’t’ve if I hadn’t been on me way back.”

She should have remained on the roofs with Genji and Zenyatta, she thinks; this could have been avoided had she not sought total solitude; but she keeps the thought encased below her heartstrings. And then something different surfaces among the strum of her pulse: had he been carrying the teas around since their return to the compound this afternoon?

Slowly, Junkrat approaches her side, loping forward in crooked steps. He slumps down in the grass at her left, peg stretched out in a rigid line while his left foot angles beneath the bend of the metal knee, the bag of chai nestled in his lap. He eyes the packaging that rests among the ivory-gold folds of her dress, and he gestures to it with a jerk of his thumb.

“I expect a drop of that,” he says.

Satya feels herself bristle at his presence. “I do not think it will be to your liking.”

“Why’s that?” He reaches over to her lap to tilt the box in such a way so that he can read the side panels once more. “Real bitter or something?”

“It isn’t at all like what we had this afternoon,” she says. “It isn’t particularly sweet, either. It has different tastes depending on the time of year, but spring’s harvest is certainly not the sort of sweet you would like.”

“Still, wouldn’t mind giving it a go.” Junkrat gives a noncommittal shrug. “You like it, so it’s gotta be good, right?”

She plucks the box from the fabric over her legs and sets it far to her right where he can’t touch it. “I don’t understand your meaning.”

“Well, you got proper taste,” he says. “S’obvious, right. Got them nice clothes and all that. Always swipe the good stuff at dinner. Chose some good tea when we was out this morning. Not bad for sweets, neither. Cake was perfect.” Junkrat pauses and succumbs to a jaw cracking yawn. His fingers clench into fists and punch toward the sky, and his body seizes up in a full, arching stretch. The already too short shirt shimmies upward, revealing the cut angles of his hips and the coarse trail of blond that dips below his belt.

As Junkrat gnashes his teeth and squints under the yawn’s exertion, Satya knows she should be focused on the set of blueprints splayed on the grass in front of her. She knows she should be tracing the design through her mind and drawing together a wireframe so she can conjure a working model for testing. She knows she should be creating something she can use to better estimate adjustments for the communicator’s prototype. And still, her eyes dart down to his waistline in spite of herself.

“‘Sides,” he says, taking his chin in hand and giving his neck a good crack, “reckon if it’s anything like Nan’s, should be all right. Weren’t too bad, I thought. Don’t mind something new every now and then. Didn’t have much in Junkertown, right. Didn’t have nothing like good teas or sweets, or any of them little biscuits Angel Wings makes or the ones that pommy girl’s got. Picking’s a bit thin there, y’know. So, this’s pretty nice. Different. I like it.”

Satya folds her fingers together, tracing at the insides of her knuckles and toward the chiseled crystal lining the palm of her gauntlet. Her heart conducts hasty rhythms behind her breastbone, and yet she somehow finds his company less anxiety-inducing than she had imagined. This morning’s close proximity wove soft notes of delight among discomfort and unease, but without forced physical contact, she now feels more at ease. She is in control here, and she can decide how close or how far he is from her person; she decides whether he can touch her and whether she will allow it.

“What exactly did you have in Junkertown?” she asks, realizing that she knows next to nothing about his previous occupations. “Well, if it’s that different, that is.”

“Eh. Bush tucker, mostly. Nothing fancy. Nothing like here.” Junkrat toys with the loops of the bag between his fingers, his forehead furrowed in thought. “Just whatever critters you can catch. If you’re lucky. Everything’s either bloody quick or’ll bite you dead, so if you don’t got the proper gear, you won’t be getting no grub.”

His teeth trace at his lower lip and worry at the corners. It seems as though he hadn’t expected the question, and he’s combing through his mind for the answers. It shouldn’t be, but it’s a strange sort of charming.

“Trading’s another option, ‘course,” he says, “though you don’t know what you’re gonna get if you go ‘bout doing that. Then it’s whatever somebody happened to scrape up somewhere outside of town. Might be irradiated if you’re not too careful. Make you sick. S’why it’s best to grab your own. Started making traps when I was ‘bout… dunno, fifteen? Just for the occasion. Hauled meself over to the good spots for better game.” A grin edges at his mouth; gold glitters beneath the glare of the setting sun. “Had me some good barbecues then.”

The image of him scorching potential food items to a crisp comes to mind, and she finds herself suppressing a smile at the thought. “Somehow, that does not surprise me.”

“Yeah?” Junkrat rubs at the place where he’d struck his head earlier this morning, swirling his thumb over the lingering soreness. “I’ll have you know I grill bloody good python. Smoked ‘roo’s not bad, either. Well, if you can catch ‘em, that is. S’what I got traps for, though. _Snap snap_ , here comes lunch. Or some bounty hunter.”

“I was not aware you could cook.” Satya turns her gaze back toward the blueprints. Her neck has begun to feel particularly hot beneath the thick layers of her hair, and so she gathers everything up in her fist to allow the breeze to kiss away the forming sweat. “Is there a reason you haven’t participated with dinner?”

“‘Cause there’s a difference ‘tween barbecuing and sautéing or whatever else proper chefs do,” he says. “One’s got fire and the rest don’t. I do a bit better when fire’s around.”

“That does not surprise me, either.” She purses her lips in thought. “What about flambé, then?”

Junkrat’s forehead crinkles. “What about what now?”

“Flambé,” she says. “It involves fire. Specifically liquor on fire. I assumed that would be up your alley, so to speak.”

“Never heard of that. I’ll admit, though, sounds like my kind of cooking. I’d be keen to try.” He rubs his palms together, as if eager. “So, what, you just go and douse something in a bit of grog and light it up?”

“Well, there is a touch more to the process,” she says, “but yes, I believe that is more or less the essential concept.”

Junkrat devolves into a fit of giggles, and she doesn’t think she’s ever heard him quite so pleased.

“Perhaps you could have Torbjörn teach you, if you’re interested,” she suggests, combing her thick hair down her right shoulder. “He seems to know a great deal about the culinary arts, and I think you would be hard pressed to find a technique he does not know about.”

“Too right. I seen him ‘round the kitchen when he’s doing all the prep work. Does a whole lot for his stature. Got a _fiery_ sort of passion, don’t he? Falls a bit short of me own, though, to be honest.”

Satya side eyes him with a thin smile. “You’re incorrigible. I hope you know that.”

“Sure.” He presses his tongue between his teeth in mischievous pleasure. “Don’t hear you complaining ‘bout it, though.”

“Oh, stop. Even if I were complaining, I highly doubt you’d listen.” She reaches over, loops her fingers through the bag’s ends, and lifts it over to her lap. “You seem to hold your interests above those of everyone else.”

“‘Course. Not a bad way to go about it. If you don’t go looking after your own skin, who is?” With a fluid motion, he hooks his wrist through the bag and snags it back. “Still, all I hear is you ain’t complaining. Incorrigible, right. Eh. S’good enough for me.”

She frowns at her captive purchase. “Do you mind?”

“Mind what?” The ends of Junkrat’s mouth shape into a broad grin. It’s proud, swaggering, self-satisfied, and it sews something hot down the curve of her spine. The warm amber of his eyes harbors a palpable sort of thrill, a stropped edge that poises ready to lance through her ribs and harpoon her to the ground where she sits. It isn’t a comforting feeling, and yet it isn’t unwanted, either.

“Do not act as if you’re unaware,” she says, and gives him a pointed stare to better emphasize her displeasure. “You know exactly what I am referring to.”

“Yeah, nah, I don’t think I do.” Junkrat eases into a contented hum that wells up from the bottom of his diaphragm and kneads into a chuckle at the very end. He rolls his shoulders, nonchalant and amused, and the muscle grows taut beneath the thin straps of his ruddy shirt. “S’all a bit on the vague side of things, y’know? Think you oughta explain. Shed a little light for me.” He jerks a metal thumb at her gauntlet. “That or otherwise.”

Satya sighs, and resorts to cradling her forehead in the valley of her palm in order to placate herself. His response is frustrating, to be sure, but she recognizes it for what it is: it’s merely another way to wrangle down beneath her skin and coax a rise out of her. It’s just like everything else he’s managed to do; it’s his witty wordplay, his ridiculous jokes, his overconfident demeanor, the contented curves of his grins, the hug he’d given her, the way he’d stolen pieces of her cake (and then proceeded to drag his mouth down the fork); it’s his way of carving a place in the world for himself through his own brand of humor, and she would be lying if she said she didn’t find his methods of ribbing the least bit annoying.

Then again, she would also be lying if she said she found it unenjoyable, too.

“Junkrat. Please. Give it here.” She flicks her hand toward the bag of tea resting in the crook of his legs. “I will have you know I was going to give that to Ana as thanks for the other night when she shared her own tea with me.”

“What, and I don’t get no thanks?” He sniffs, and lays his prosthetic over top of the bag to protect it from any retrieval attempts. “I coulda just kept ‘em, y’know. Given ‘em to Roadhog or something. He’s fond of the warm stuff. But I didn’t, right. Here I am being a proper gent and returning ‘em to their rightful owner, and not a word of gratitude from her. Feel a bit slighted.”

“Yes, you mean to return them, but for a ‘finder’s fee,’” she says. “Which, I might remind you, effectively negates any goodness done with the deed. Really, what do you expect me to pay you with? Tea leaves? Because I am most certainly not going to dip into my personal funds just because you feel the need to extort me.”

“Extort? Oh, that hurts. Really does.” He knocks over his heart with his fist. “Right in the ticker.”

“It is the truth,” she says, and turns back toward her blueprints. Eager to dismiss him, she splays her hands across the gridded surface and smooths out the pages, rearranging some of the pebbles to better weigh down the corners. “Perhaps you should rethink your monetary acquisition strategies if you believe something like that will work with me.”

“Right, look, weren’t expecting cash or nothing like that,” says Junkrat. He sports a furrowed frown and nudges her elbow with his own. The metal clinks against the pristine white of her gauntlet. “Just was having a bit of fun with you is all. Nothing serious. Expected—hell, I dunno—maybe another run to the shop or something.”

“Did you really?” She glances at him from the corner of her eye as she forms her hands together in preparation for another attempt at bringing the communicator into reality. “I find that hard to believe. You know, I am the one who paid for the drinks this morning. If we were to go back, either we pay individually, or it is your turn to pick up the tab.”

Junkrat exhales noisily through his nose. “Oi, just what kinda bloke you take me for?”

“A mad one,” she replies.

Satya draws in a deep breath, closes her eyes, and threads her fingers over one another. Whatever response he had been planning must have fallen to the seaside, as no further protests arise from his direction. With nothing but the ocean swelling by her eardrums, she focuses on the sketched imagery of the communicator’s prototype and attempts to sculpt its crude wireframe upon the crystal in her left hand. She can feel the prickling stare of Junkrat’s scrutiny, but she pushes it to the back of her mind, bites at her lower lip, and pulls.

A delicate shimmer graces the space overtop the blueprints. As sleek white and blue fills in the intricacies of the translucent wireframe, its weight presses small crinkles into the paper sheets. The slight depression among the grid cradles her first attempt at its early design. It isn’t perfect, she notes—there are a few measurements that are just slightly out of place—but it isn’t terrible for something so new. In addition to Mei’s comments and the other members’ input, it appears that adjustments will have to be made. Such is the process, she supposes.

Satya gathers it between her hands and begins to inspect its architecture, her thumbs tilting it to accommodate the slow withdrawal of the sun. The communicator’s inner work is hollow, as she has not yet developed how all of the wiring will come together; she has decided to leave that to Winston and his genius with computers and similar circuitry until she is able to replicate it. This particular piece will serve only as outerwear for the intended device, although she may involve other alterations should Winston deem it necessary.

As she scrutinizes its curvature and the thinned plate to cover the ear, she becomes keenly aware of Junkrat as he ushers close. He’s encroached on the outskirts of her vision, propped up on the metal of his prosthetic, leaning across the gap between them both. She can’t discern any details without facing him directly, but she assumes he’s enthused with her rudimentary design, and she doesn’t know whether to feel proud or amused at the fact.

“Is there something you need?” she asks, flipping the communicator over between her palms.

Junkrat’s presence edges closer. “That’s what you been working on?”

“It is,” says Satya. “Why do you ask?”

“Just was wondering.” An orange finger hovers in her peripheral, and he prods one of the prototype’s ends with a testing curiosity. “We supposed to wear it or something?”

“Well, yes. That is the idea. Whether it can actually be worn in this state is another issue altogether.” She takes it in her left hand and holds it up for him to see. “I don’t think it will fit anyone right now. This is simply a generic model for my use. I will need to take measurements in order to develop one for each of us.”

“Measurements?” Junkrat places his thumb and forefinger over the communicator, his eyes imploring a wordless _can I?_ , and when she lets go in reply, he cups it in the expanse of his metal palm and hunches downward in attempt to examine it further. His teeth tend to his lower lip as he pores over the glossy material and its minute complexities. “Looks fine to me. Got all the important stuff. What you need measurements for?”

“To ensure it fits,” she says. “Its purpose is to stay fastened to its user. If its size is incorrect or if there need to be other adjustments, then it won’t stay in place. It is a rather pointless device if it does not perform its function, is it not?”

“Suppose so. Makes sense. Not much use if it don’t stay put.” He peers down at it with rapt fascination, and the thought of him being impressed with her work strums notes of pride across her heartstrings. After several moments spent ogling the piece, he glances upward and cocks an eyebrow in her direction. “Right, so, what, you just gonna go ‘bout the base grabbing everybody’s ears for a quick measure then? Is that how that’s gonna work?”

“Well, my primary goal was to create a prototype. Without something tangible to work with, it would make things more difficult to improve. After that, it was to eventually create a design that the entire team could agree on, or at least be comfortable with. Both have to come first before I can take varying sized models into account. As of right now, I have only a prototype. It is the first iteration of many to come—or so I assume, at least.”

Satya reaches down to the pages in front of her and removes one of the pebbles. Her thumb flips between the sheets, revealing various sketches in differing styles, and there are two or three she recognizes at a glance.

“Mei has been helping with overall critique on the design,” she says, tapping the corresponding suggestions with her polished nail. “Winston has made some notes, too. It looks like some of the others have as well, but I haven’t had the chance to give them a thorough read just yet. With everyone’s input, I should be able to work closer to a final product. I hope it will be a smooth transition, but everyone has different ideas on what would be an ideal earpiece, so I expect disagreements in the near future. Regardless, this should help us immensely. Being able to communicate as a unit is a necessity, especially with our ranks expanding as they are, and this will give us better leverage on our missions.”

She eases the communicator out from Junkrat’s inquisitive fingers with care. It is extraordinarily light in her grasp, just as hard-light should be, and while it certainly isn’t her best work, not by a long shot, she supposes it will suffice for now. All it needs to do is serve as a frame of reference when making rectifications and adjustments. It may be tedious, but gathering specifications and continuous refinement are both necessary processes when developing for a specific user in mind. Such workflows are not unfamiliar, but it has been a long time since she has utilized them in a domestic setting.

Satya can sense him watching. It isn’t uncalled for, considering the situation, but all she can think of is the way he’d looked at her in the hangar, and it clenches a familiar prickle down the length of her backbone. Her fingers pressed to her creation, she turns to meet his gaze, and it’s then beneath the puzzled amber of his eyes that she realizes she never actually answered his question.

“I… I do apologize,” she says, resisting the flush through her neck. “I get carried away sometimes.”

“Eh, ain’t no harm in it,” says Junkrat. His shoulders bob in a shrug, the thin tank settling askew; such an open plane offers a far more noticeable view of the tan lines that were wrought from his harness, and a knot begins to work its way through her throat. “S’just like me and bombs, right. Get all into it. Real into it. Then next thing you know it’s two days later and you can’t remember the last time you had any grub. Roadie’s always reminding me ‘bout something or telling me to stuff it. Says I won’t shut up otherwise.” His fingers roll the plastic ends of the bag into delicate twists. “He’s probably right.”

“Well, I find your passion admirable.” And then, as an afterthought, “If not extremely dangerous.”

“Admirable, huh.” He pauses, brows pinched together in uncertainty. “You’re pulling me leg.”

“I wouldn’t pull your leg, Junkrat.”

“You did, though,” he says, raising one finger in protest. “When you dragged me out from that clunker. Talon knobs marching down the street, and you got me by the foot and yanked me right out.”

“All right. I suppose I would pull your leg in the literal sense. But that is not what was meant here.” Satya finds that it is too difficult to continue looking at him, and so she guides her eyes back toward the swelling ocean. Sunset has begun to paint darker rivers of color across the horizon, and the beginnings of twilight caress the rolling waters. “I find that while many people have various passions in life, few commit to them in such a way. I admit I certainly would not choose explosives as a passion, but the amount of time and effort you put into what you do is—” She bites back _attractive_ with viciousness and supplies, “—commendable,” instead.

“Well, your stuff’s not bad, either,” he says. “Teleporters and little gizmos. That thing there.” He gestures to the communicator in her hands with a jerk of his head. “Commendable, I’d say. I know I’d be dead without ‘em.”

“We both would,” she says, and her heart hurts at the thought of Vishkar never finding her amongst the Hyderabad slums.

“Right. So, about them ear measurements.” Junkrat pulls the box of chai out from the bag and begins to turn it about, smoothing his good fingers over the edges and corners before giving it a twist to trace the adjacent ridges. “You got some plan for it then? ‘Cause if you’re gonna just round everybody up, probably should let you know Hog don’t much like his ears being messed with. Gets all snarly about it. Real snarly.”

“To be honest, I haven’t quite given the ear measuring process much thought.” Satya brushes the pads of her fingers over top of the communicator’s surface. It is not the same as her gauntlet, but it is something to concentrate her focus, and she does so with purpose. “I suppose gathering measurements from person to person would be the best approach. Streamlining it would require everyone being in the same room so we could take them in bulk, but I have a feeling that would be too disruptive to everyone’s routines.”

“So, one by one. Right then.” He spins the box in his metal hand before capturing it with his left. “I’d wait ‘til Roadie’s conked out for that, if I was you. Or maybe let him do it. Dunno how good that’d be. He just don’t like no one getting close to his breather. Reckon ears’d be far enough, but I’d rather keep the rest of me fingers if it means all the same to you.” Junkrat glances to her, a thin smile at the corner of his mouth. “You’d probably be keen on keeping yours as well.”

“Well, we’ll think of something, I’m sure,” she says, and places the prototype down upon the flattened blueprints. “I will need to collect everyone’s measurements to ensure a proper fit. He won’t be able to skirt by with that as an excuse. Perhaps he can hold the calipers to his ear if he is that uncomfortable.”

“Might work. Worth a shot, at least.” Junkrat lifts his prosthetic from the tea box and flicks his thumb at the shell of his right ear. “I won’t make no fuss, though.”

Satya resists a smile. “Even if now were a good time, I don’t have anything to measure you with.”

“I’ll bet you a box of tea that you can conjure up a little something just for the occasion.”

“You do realize I could just refuse and win said box of tea, correct?” Satya reaches over and snatches it out of his hand before he can react, and then places it over with its companion at her right hip. “Or I could rightfully reclaim my purchase and continue with my evening.”

Junkrat seems less than amused. “That ain’t fair.”

“Of course it is. They were mine to begin with.” With a flick of her wrists, she weaves a simplistic wireframe between her hands and summons a short, thin measuring stick upon her lap. Although it will not be as accurate as a pair of calipers for either projection or length, she supposes it will suffice for such generic sizing. “Now, are you going to behave so I can take measurements, or will I have to track you down with Mercy later?”

“You say that like I ain’t behaving already,” he says, following her hand’s gesture to look out toward the ocean.

“I find holding my things hostage under the threat of a finder’s fee is not exactly behaving.” With the metal of her gauntlet, she taps his lower back with the ruler. “Sit straight.”

“I wasn’t being serious, y’know,” says Junkrat. He complies, however, and pulls out of his curled hunch and into a far healthier posture; his shoulders squared, backbone rigid, abdomen tight and flat. His scraggly shirt is still awry, and she struggles with the urge to tug it back down so it would frame his chest in appropriate symmetry.

“Regardless,” she says, touching her index finger beneath his chin, “I would hardly count extortion as good behavior, even if it is concerning tea. I can only hope you won’t continue misbehaving when Winston and the others decide on a direction for our next mission.”

“Oh, you ain’t seen misbehaving, love.” He flashes a wide grin, the rich aurum of a golden molar winking at her by the corner of his mouth. “Extortion and barbecue are only two of my many, many talents.”

Satya’s face grows hot, and she pauses as she brings the ruler by his ear. “Something tells me I would be better off not knowing the rest.”

“Was meaning bombs, of course,” he says, tilting his head toward her to give an appraising look. “Though a bit of fire’s not so bad, either.”

“And trap making, apparently.” Pressing her lips together, she guides him back with a thumb and forefinger against his prominent chin, and she holds him there for a good two seconds before releasing to tend to his measurements. “I have not seen you use anything like that here. With your assortment of, well, _talents_ , I’d assumed you would utilize everything to the best of your ability.”

“Oh, I got a couple lying about,” he says. “Mostly by the bed.”

“The bed?” Satya frowns in bewilderment as she mentally marks the centimeters: a little under five-point-five. The overall length from top to lobe is significantly less than what she’d imagined; he has rather small ears for someone of his size. “Sorry, perhaps I misunderstood—you put traps by your bed?”

“S’just habit, right,” he says with a shrug. “I’ll be honest, though, near got me in a spot of trouble once or twice. The dwarf just ‘bout had his leg off one morning. Woke me and Roadie and probably all the rest shouting up a storm. He’s got a lot of bluster for being so short, y’know. Told him he shoulda took the long way ‘round if he didn’t want to shave off an extra foot. Didn’t take too kindly to that. Haven’t heard no more complaints, though. Reckon he thought risking some centimeters weren’t worth it since he’s got so little of ‘em as it is.”

“So I didn’t misunderstand. You _do_ put traps by your bed.” Satya presses the edge of the ruler back against his scalp to estimate the projection. As she corrects his head’s direction toward the ocean once more with her thumb, it becomes apparent just how much his ears stick out from the rest of him. Perhaps it is because his hair is so unkempt and wild that it has concealed their position, but she has never noticed such a small detail before—and if she’s honest, it’s quite endearing.

“Yeah, but traps’s not so bad, really,” he says. “Sure, they’re all snapping and you’re like to lose a leg, but you shoulda seen what Roadie wanted to rig up. He’s got guns, right, and he had half a mind to put a tripwire in that’d trigger one of ‘em going off right in some poor sap’s face. I weren’t against it, but the big shieldy bloke had a word or two ‘bout the idea and then it got lobbed right out the window.”

Satya adjusts the ruler, relocating it upward to the top of his ear. “And you thought that was a good idea?”

“Well, yeah, before all this, it woulda been. Had to do all sorts of stuff like that, y’know. Junkers ain’t such a friendly lot. Neither’s bounty hunters. Best be safe and have a few traps about than dead in your swag. So, yeah, s’not a bad idea.” He grins and turns toward her again. “‘Sides, little snappy things ain’t nothing compared to some of the big explodey traps I’d made in the bush. Land mines, more or less. Covered up real good. Always a lovely little wakeup call. _Kaboom_ —got me up and kicking, and with one less tosser looking to swipe my haul.”

“You do realize you need to stay still in order for me to do this, correct?” She pushes him back by the nose, the pad of her index finger beside the little birth mark by its end, and she gives him a firm tap. “Now be still.”

“Right, right, sorry,” he says. “Keep forgetting.”

“How can you forget?” she asks, taking note of the length between his scalp at the top end of his ear. “I’m in the process of measuring you now.”

“Eh. Me head’s a bit addled, I guess.” He scratches through thick bunches of blond with his good hand. “Don’t mind it, though. Remember all the important stuff. Mostly. S’what matters.”

Satya withdraws the ruler, perplexed. “Important things like our team building exercise’s ongoing score, but not what you’re participating in right now? That doesn’t make any sense.”

Junkrat bites at his lower lip. He has moved his good leg out from beneath his metal knee, and his shoe shakes back and forth to the roll of the waves on the rocky beaches below. His eyes are focused on the bristling grass by his legs, his forehead creased in thought. The machinery of his right hand is tapping along his thigh in a series of rhythms she’s sure she’s heard him produce before, but she has no other frame of reference in which to place them. The sunset sinks into his skin, blotting healthy color beneath his cheekbones and at the tips of his ears.

While she had been in close proximity with him earlier on this morning, it had been restricted. She had not had the opportunity to truly see his face without twisting about or causing herself undue discomfort.  She sits beside him now, at her own choice and with exits at her disposal, and more little intricacies of him catch her attention: the sharpness of his jaws and nose, the prominence of the muscle in his neck down to his clavicle, the small marks by his mouth, the flecked spots beneath his eyes, the delicate wisps of insomnia smudged just beneath.

Despite her thrumming heartbeat, Satya finds herself more at ease than she has been the past several weeks, and she doesn’t know why.

“Junkrat?” Concerned at his lack of response, she places the ruler among the folds of her dress and lifts her left hand to touch at his shoulder. “Are you all right? If that was not something I should have mentioned—”

“Jamison.”

“I… I’m sorry, what?” Satya pauses, her thoughts effectively derailed from their appropriate course. It takes her a moment to parse the word, and even when she does, there is no context in which it would make sense as an interjection. “I… I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”

“My name.”

Junkrat stares out toward the ocean, his posture reverted to something coiled and hunched. His shoulders are tight, wound, and brought together, as if anxious. His teeth worry at his lower lip, and there is a degree of tension that ropes through his neck. His mechanical hand continues to drum on his thigh, orange metal fingers padding muffled rhythms overtop his patched shorts.

“It’s Jamison,” he mutters, timbre low and somehow guarded. “Not the junker one, right. Not some nickname. Or moniker. Whatever you wanna call it. Not the professional bit. Real one’s Jamison Fawkes. Jamison’s fine. Had some call me Fawkes before. Was a long time ago, though. Real long time ago.”

There is a chunk of time composed of several seconds where her mind has trouble connecting the dots. A mashed and jagged amalgam forces its way to the forefront of her thoughts, of Ana smirking at his preferred moniker, of the fabric shop’s clerk mentioning her last name in passing, of her stating professionalism to separate work and one’s personal life, of his flushed ears in the oil-tanged air of the hangar, and it screws a hot puncture between her ribs.

It is several more seconds before she finds her voice stuck down in the confines of her throat and manages to pry it loose.

“A very dignified name,” she says at last. “Not one I had expected.”

His prosthetic climbs up the back of his neck and rubs by his hairline. “Yeah. I know.”

“I do think it’s lovely,” she adds.

The corner of his mouth crinkles in a half smile. “Now you’re really pulling me leg.”

“I really am not. I thought we decided this already.” Satya offers what she hopes to be a reassuring pat on the arm, metal fingers ghosting at the tattoo that coats his bicep. “Jamison Fawkes is quite a lovely name. It has charm.”

And it suits him, she thinks, if in a very odd way. Perhaps it was not what she had anticipated, but it is true design that such a chaos-clung man would have such a regal sounding name eclipsed by a ratty pseudonym. It mirrors him in the strangest sense; there is something else that lurks beneath the soot and grime of the battlefield.

“Right. Well, least one of us thinks so. Dunno what Mum and Da was thinking when they chose it, to be honest. Seems stupid.” Junkrat’s hands migrate to the plastic bag that had been folded beneath his knee. He winds it between his fingers with a degree of unease, the soft rumpling over the crash of the sea, his thick eyebrows pinched and furrowed. “Never liked it, really. What sort of name is Jamison, anyway? Too… I dunno. Too proper. Don’t rightly fit the likes of me. Me and my _character_ , right? But just thought, y’know, if they wanted to name me that so bloody bad, might as well keep it. Honor ‘em. Don’t like it much, but it’d probably make ‘em happy. Least I think so. Or maybe it wouldn’t.”

Satya swallows the knot coagulating in her throat and presses her nails into her palm. With a deep breath, she straightens herself and extends her right hand, as if in greeting. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Jamison Fawkes.”

Junkrat regards her outstretched fingers with hesitance. A canine is settled into the flesh of his lip, the burning amber of his eyes saturated in the palette bled from the sinking sun. A moment or two passes, heartbeats lining the column of her neck as a too tight blouse collar, and then he shifts himself at an angle and meets her with his prosthetic. The warm metal cups her hand, his thumb settling onto the back of her palm. Protruding screws stick from the lower knuckles and at the thumb joints, and despite its crudeness and sheer size, in this moment, it feels almost human.

“Pleasure’s all mine, Miss Vaswani,” says Junkrat, cracking a hearty grin.

“Satya Vaswani,” she supplies. The drum of her heart is deafening.

“All right. Satya Vaswani.” There is a slight squeeze around her palm, and he works his jaws in thought. “Well, now there’s something fitting if I ever heard it.”

Slowly, she draws her hand away. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Means just what it sounds like.” As an afterthought, he balls up the plastic bag and offers it to her amongst metal fingers. “Least your name fits you. Real prim. Not in a bad way or nothing. Got its own little… I dunno. Got a flow to it, right. Everything together. Just sounds nice. Sounds like a name should. Not like mine.”

“Jamison Fawkes is an appropriate name. I think you may be looking at it from the wrong angle. It has its own unique sound. It fits the man, I believe. He is equally unique.” She accepts the bag from him, and after a moment of unbunching it, she places both boxes of tea inside and stashes it to her right.

When she meets his gaze again, he stares back, a latent intensity lacing through the sharpness of his features.

“You been calling me all sorts of things lately,” he says. “First was stuff like simpleton. Reckless. Then stuff like fearless. Still reckless, but admirable. Now I’m unique.” He cocks his head, the blond of his hair wrought into pale wine beneath the encroaching twilight. “Can’t make up your mind, now, can you?”

“No. I suppose not.” Her voice is quiet and even, just as she needs it to be, and yet her heart is a shivering envelope tucked among the ladder of her ribs. “But it is possible to be all of those things. Jamison Fawkes seems to be a man of many talents. I don’t see why he should be limited to just one descriptor.” And then, after a brief moment of reflection, “Perhaps simpleton should be retracted as one of them.”

“Well, that’s awful generous of you, innit? Seeing as how you wasn’t too accepting of our little arrangement. Bonding, right. Or being mates.” His gaze plies her apart spears her where she sits. “Bit of a jump from simpleton to admirable, I’d say.”

Satya slides the ruler between her fingers, tracing its hard-light edges with slow, delicate precision. “That was my error,” she admits. “I should not have called you that. Our introduction was somewhat… rocky, to say the least. I held a great deal of resentment for what happened to my workspace at the time, and my frustration got the best of me. We have had our disagreements, but I will admit, our professional relationship is far better than what it was. I believe your idea for a team building exercise has been a success so far.”

“See, I got good ideas,” says Junkrat. “Not all of ‘em’s like blowing bloody walls in.”

“A decent amount still are,” she says, a smile edging its way in.

“Yeah. Not arguing that.” He glances out toward the suffusing dusk, the sun’s final sliver steeping below the ocean waves. “Reckon a couple of missing walls ain’t a bad thing, though. What’s the saying? Close a door and a window opens? Something like that. Way I look at it’s like this, right: why bother with either? Say to hell with ‘em both and blow it all sky high. Can’t rightly see your options if you got walls in the way.”

“Well, I suppose that’s one way to look at it. I believe it defeats the purpose of the metaphor, however.” Ruler in hand, she gestures for him to correct his posture once more. “Here, look straight ahead. I have one more measurement to take, and then you are free to slouch all you wish.”

Junkrat arches into a lazy stretch. The muscles in his back coil together and his shoulders bunch as he reaches back behind his head. His too short tank clambers further up his belly, and she is left focusing on the hard lines of his hips and the sculpture of his abdomen. His golden teeth are bared in a shuddering yawn, and when he unspools down into an appropriate position, he thumbs away wetness from the corner of his eye.

“Tired?” Satya raises the ruler beside his ear with her left hand, this time for a calculated width. The muscle in his jaw tenses under her touch, and her gaze is once again brought toward the skewed placement of his shirt.

“Yeah,” he replies. “Not like that’s new or nothing. Couldn’t sleep last night. Head’s too awake. Got all sorts of things bursting about.”

“I did not sleep particularly well last night, either.” Ignoring the ruler, she brings a finger toward the crooked portion of his top. The brilliant blue polish of her nail contrasts with the faded red, cast a much paler hue with the cloak of coming twilight, and as she tucks the end of her finger at the wide neckline and tugs downward, she grazes soft lines over the gripping warmth of his skin.

There is no question: a shiver climbs through him. It starts at the base of his spine and rolls up through his back and by his neck. The knot of his adam’s apple works down in a swallow, and the rest of him strings taut in a statuesque pose under the pressure of her touch. Perhaps it is her imagination, but his breathing seems to have hastened, and although her own pulse is a symphony within, a part of her swears she can hear his heartbeat.

“Jamison.” She doesn’t know when she’d lowered her left hand. The ruler sits in the grass by her palm, and she can’t remember the exact number of centimeters she’d measured.

Junkrat remains transfixed by the world ahead. He stares at the navy-crested waves, the presence of pinprick stars, the rolling seafoam, the cumulus-blotted expanse of open sky. His hands have fixed themselves over his thighs, clenched into the camouflaged patterns of his shorts, and despite the rhythmic kneading of his left hand, his body stands remarkably still.

“Satya.” Her name is a low murmur, washed upon the jagged shore and devoured by the rising tide.

It’s as if she is watching herself from miles away. It’s as if she is not on the lush outcrop, but instead suspended somewhere above the ocean, caught in a freefall toward the dark waters below. Her hands are clasped together in shaking symbols to open the pathway she so urgently needs, and yet nothing comes. Geometry fractures under her fingertips; her heart is lodged in her throat and adrenaline flushes in her veins and smoke pours through her lungs. He is a quaking mess behind her, his arms ensconced tight beneath her ribs, his nose buried against her neck, his mouth breathing disjointed syllables in the shapes of desperation and hope. She glances upward, out toward the Rock, glints of ivory and gold captured by faded smudges of red and green, and then the path below yawns open in a maw of awaiting static.

With a thunderous drum in the film of her ears, Satya places her thumb and forefinger at Junkrat’s chin. He does not move; his eyes are focused toward the swelling sea, as if he could see the distant form of himself curled around her in their plummeting drop. Warmth sinks through her fingerprints and webs through her nerves, and the color swathed beneath scattered freckles catches her eye.

Earlier this morning, she had told herself that she could not be in such close contact. She had told herself that she could not spend time with him in a nonprofessional setting, and that she could not be alone with him. In spite of all of her inward lectures and internal scolding and renewed vigor to retake control of something that has spiraled so beyond her reach, she has effectively disregarded all boundaries she had established for herself, and with great purpose.

Satya leans close. The smell of the sea combs through her lungs, and so does the mellow coolness wrought from sprawling fields. A faint musk of perspiration and exertion smooths overtop, but it does little to bite back the scent of his skin. Tight warmth nestles deep behind her breastbone, and there is little else in the world beside it. The thoughts of her schematics, her creations—turrets and teleporters and communicators—all fall to the wayside; they drop to the open ocean and are left to their own devices beneath twilit waters.

Throughout her professional career, she has always addressed and corrected her mistakes. Doing so initiates a learning process, and it ensures that she will not make the same mistake again. It is ingrained within her every fiber, as failure has never been an option, and the desire to correct herself has always overwhelmed everything else.

And yet, he is somehow exempt from this. It does not apply. He is immune to all of the rules she had created, the rules _Vishkar_ had created; he is not constrained by frivolous things like bureaucratic policies and mission statements; he is not cowed by hallowed ideals such as world order.

Jamison Fawkes is an agent of chaos. He is locked in the cyclical paths of creation and ruin, and it is now that she realizes he is a continuous mistake that she cannot hope to correct.

Gripping his chin with increasing pressure, she stares at him with lingering fierceness drudged up in adrenaline’s aftermath. His teeth sink into his lower lip beneath her eyes, working, gnawing, testing, as if the tic could somehow pour in and flood the silence wedged between them both, but it doesn’t.

“You’re incorrigible,” she says.

It’s half breathed, a wispy accusation forced out of her lungs, and she presses it against his cheek with a kiss.

The warmth is too brief, too close, and impossibly deep. It sprouts roots and spiderwebs beneath her skin, down her neck, across her shoulders, roping through her vertebrae in cinching fingers. She does not remember when she stopped breathing, but a distinct pang buries at her sides with pinching needles, and so she withdraws, composure kept, and pulls in a smooth inhale through her nose.

Junkrat raises his left hand to his face. The pads of his fingers ghost where her lips had touched. His mouth opens, but if there is any sound, she can’t hear it. The hammering in her chest eclipses all other senses, and all she knows is that she needs to leave.

With nothing but schematics lining her mind’s eye, Satya hooks her fingers around the bag with her purchase and rises to her feet. The urge to run rockets through her limbs, but she reins it back and quashes it into a brisk walk. Her sandals sift between cool blades of grass, the warm sea breeze carves at her back and through her thick waves of hair, and dusk preys on the last gasps of sunset.

It occurs to her far too late that her blueprints still remain on the outcropping, but there can be no turning back.

The crystal in her gauntlet’s palm cups in waterfalls of curses in varying languages.

She does not like Junkrat. No, she doesn’t, because that would be far too simple.

Satya Vaswani does not like Junkrat—

She is _infatuated_.


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _It might not be the right time_   
>  _I might not be the right one_   
>  _But there's something about us I want to say_   
>  _['Cause there's something between us anyway](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sOS9aOIXPEk) _

It has been two days since Satya left her blueprints on the outcrop, and there has been no sign of them since.

There is little question as to what sort of fate has befallen them. She is certain that sometime between her hasty exit and three hours later when she had managed to gather up the courage to return to the spot by the ocean, Junkrat had scooped them up and taken them with him. As for where he took them, Satya hasn’t the slightest idea, and it sluices her in an undercurrent of gripping panic. All of the feedback she had received as well as her first prototype are now missing; she has no secondary copies aside from the sparse set of notes she’d kept in a thin notepad in the workshop, and even so, they could not hope to grant her the appropriate details to construct a replica of any kind.

The workshop had been the first place she’d looked. It was the following morning after The Incident, ten o’clock, a time when she knew Junkrat would either be absent or asleep. After a close inspection, there had been nothing added or misplaced in her workspace—which, while a good thing under normal circumstances, was not the desired outcome in this respect. Junkrat’s work area was still a sprawling mess, and although she held no desire to traverse its insanity, she had forced herself to step between hills of compiled parts and chemicals in search of her precious schematics.

To her displeasure, she had found naught but half constructed grenades, empty mine casings, spools of wire, vials of questionable compounds, and stacks of folded papers that had been ripped from a notebook. The pages were definitely not hers, she’d found, and were most likely from the little one he kept with him on the dropship while en route to missions. They had depicted various drawings and scribbles, most pertaining to his craft and new ideas he thought to entertain, but there were the occasional intricate sketchings of a new weapon design. A new prototype for a grenade launcher, perhaps? Impressive, to be sure, and a part of her wondered if he’d aspired to gather the parts for construction, but that thought was smothered with haste.

With the workshop a fruitless endeavor, she had resorted to searching other areas of the complex. This encompassed common areas, such as the recreation room, the mess hall, the kitchen, the washroom, the catwalks among the roofs, and the connecting passageways between the outpost’s structures. When that yielded nothing of import, she had attempted more specialized places instead: the infirmary, Winston’s personal laboratory, the hangar, and the surrounding spaces where she had seen them last.

Unfortunately, in spite of her best efforts, all attempts have proven unsuccessful thus far. Satya suspects she could spend a week scouring the entire compound from top to bottom only to achieve a similar result. To make matters worse, a mission deployment is in just two days. After a great number of meetings and discussions centered around Jack Morrison’s indecision concerning his stay, his assumption of leadership, and Overwatch’s illicit revival, one of the Talon marked locations had been chosen for further investigation. The group that will be sent will need a working model of communicator, and it is up to her to produce one.

Now, in the wake of her missing blueprints, she is left with an impending mission, a ticking clock, and an elusive madman who has conveniently not shown to any of the subsequent meetings following The Incident.

Satya rubs her hands over her face and exhales into her palms. She lies in bed, supine to the ceiling, exasperated beyond measure. Morning has already come and gone, and with the afternoon slipping by at an alarming rate, she finds her options have dwindled considerably. There are a small number of remaining places she could search for her blueprints, but there is a knotting mass beside her belly that tells her any further attempts will be just as fruitless. There is decidedly one person who will know what has become of them, and she neither has the courage nor the composure to face him in any setting since The Incident.

Perhaps it is odd, but she has resorted to referring to The Incident as The Incident simply because it serves as a way to cope. The Incident is the whole of that evening, encompassing the events leading from the moment she sat down until the moment she walked away. It is not The Incident because her blueprints are missing; it is The Incident because she had let her baser desires best her in a situation that never should have happened with a man she never should have met.

The pads of her fingers trace across her mouth. Kissing him—no, not _him_ , his _cheek_ —was a massive mistake. She had told herself she would not let something as ridiculous as attraction ruin a professional relationship, and yet here she is, steeping in the remnants of its shattered husk amongst her bedsheets. Even if she were to seek him out for her blueprints, The Incident would have to be addressed in some manner. It would _have_ to be. She can’t foresee any plausible scenarios where it would be swept under the rug and never spoken of again. His expressive shock at the outcrop implies he would start asking questions, and, if she’s perfectly honest, she doesn’t know if she would have the answers to any of them.

She doesn’t even know why she allowed The Incident to happen to begin with. A series of poor choices had led to the poorest of choices; she could have stopped herself at any time, at any turn between the connected set of events that had culminated in The Incident, and she didn’t. And not only did Satya not stop herself, she had taken pleasure in everything. She had enjoyed his presence, his jokes, his banter, his grins, his curiosity in her work, the tentative revelation of his real name—and yes, even The Incident itself.

Satya kneads at her temples in frustration. It is clear that her vulnerability is a far greater liability than she had anticipated, and she has no idea how to quash it. Her expertise is in hard-light manipulation and development; she specializes in creation and the architecture that comes with it. Her feelings have always been on the backburner, as it has never mattered how she felt. The men and women at Vishkar, while far more suitable as potential partners, were not viable choices. The academy had housed her future coworkers and colleagues, and the instructors developed ways in which to pit other students against one another in order to encourage competition and productivity; there was no such thing as getting to know one another at a personal level. Vishkar’s employees themselves all stemmed from this rigorous environment, and while Sanjay was an exception, the opportunity to connect with her colleagues in such a way, no less a _romantic_ way, was never an option.

This is not her element. It has never been. She is at a loss and with no precedent to follow. It is as if she had plummeted into the engulfing ocean waves that sunsoaked afternoon, wresting her path toward the water’s rolling surface beside Mei’s sinking cargo ship; it is as if her fingers strike the other side of the sea, grasping for purchase, and yet her nails claw against the blue skyburst beyond like a looking glass; she is still there, entrapped beneath cresting waves and thick seafoam, struggling for air with pressed lips and tired eyes.

Expelling a sigh, Satya swings her legs over the side of the mattress and slides out of bed. There is no use brooding here all afternoon, she thinks, not when there is still work to be done. She cannot let this affect her in such a way. Even if she is infatuated with Junkrat for whatever ridiculous reason, letting herself succumb to all of the questioning and introspection and self-analysis that seem to have been a complementary part of the revelation package is a pointless course of action. While she would certainly like to know why her subconscious mind is intent on sabotaging her work through unfounded attraction to an utter walking disaster of a man, it is best to let it roll off her back so she can focus her attention on more pressing matters. Namely, the retrieval of her blueprints.

And unfortunately, therein lies the root of the matter. Junkrat would be the only person in the outpost with any knowledge of her blueprints’ whereabouts, and the thought of facing him wrings her stomach in tumultuous knots. She has done her best to avoid his presence the past two days, and to her relief, she has seen neither hide nor hair of him anywhere among the watchpoint’s buildings or surrounding grounds. A part of her suspects he has been taking the exact same approach to the aftermath of The Incident, however, and she doesn’t know whether to feel slighted or angry at the thought.

Neither, she reminds herself, smoothing over her bedsheets. She feels neither, _neither_ , and that is how it should be. Slighted would imply she had expected him to react favorably; anger would imply his avoidance is no less correct than her own. Both emotions supply avenues of thought she would rather not explore, and so she quashes them down with a set jaw and her nails embedded in the lifelines of her palm.

As she turns away from her bed, her eyes catch the bright crimson of Junkrat’s empty grenade shells sitting on her nightstand. Stark white paint graces their faces with eager grins, and she is reminded of the smile welded onto the front of Roadhog’s sidecar. The pressure of Junkrat at her back and his arm tucked around her waist seeps into the memories of her nerves, the sheer warmth of him a churning fire, and the pain stemming from her nails against her palm escalates.

Shoving out the image of tan-struck shoulders and the wildfire of his hair, Satya smooths out her blouse and exits her space in the barracks with purpose guiding her steps. There is no greater importance than retrieving her schematics, she tells herself. That is all that matters. She is not going to find Junkrat because she wants to see him or because she wants to discuss The Incident or for any other potential reason; this is work, this is _business_ , this is her personal project, this is something imperative to the team; and if she is unable to recover the blueprints so she can draft a first model, it will be to everyone’s detriment.

The workshop would be the most ideal place to start, and so she decides to make that her first stop. The corridors leading there are thankfully bare; her composure is a fragile thing, straining to keep itself afloat, and she does not think she could endure any further intensive bouts of social interaction. On such a hot and lazy afternoon as this one, she supposes everyone has retreated to their rooms or has sought succor in the recreation room or the kitchen for cooled drinks. Whatever the case is, she is grateful for it.

As she strides by the infirmary, she peers in the cracked door and affords the room within a passing glance. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches Mercy’s slim form among the parallel beds, draped in a long lab coat. She seems to be tending to one of the team, although Satya can’t see any discerning features of the patient due to the powdered blue swath of a privacy curtain. She supposes it isn’t unusual for Mercy to be conducting physicals or other examinations, especially less than forty-eight hours before a mission deployment, and so she dismisses the thought.

When she reaches the workshop entrance, muscle memory guides her fingertips and she keys in the six-digit code for entry. The metal door shifts open with a familiar huff, and she makes her way in with almost tentative steps. A single sweep of the premises indicates that there is no Junkrat, not among his piles and piles of parts and components, but both Reinhardt and Torbjörn inhabit the left-hand side of the room. Reinhardt is tending to his armor upon its supporting stand, working a bunched cloth upon its surface in even circles, and Torbjörn has perched himself in his chair with a set of crinkled schematics in his lap.

Her heart leaps at the sight, but when she draws closer, it becomes clear that they are very much not her own.

“Oh, you are far too sour, Torby. I think it is a good idea.” Reinhardt sits on one knee, clad in a plain tee tucked into a pair of tan trousers. His brickhouse build strains at the black material of his shirt, and every swirled stroke works the wrought muscle through his arm and shoulder. “There is no reason we should not investigate them. What could we hope to lose by visiting? They were marked for a reason. They must hold something important. I do not understand such dishonorable people, but surely they would not mark so many places if they meant nothing.”

Torbjörn snorts. His metalworking and weaponsmithing claw lies disengaged on the workshop table behind him, a suitable humanlike replacement screwed over the remainder of his metal arm. His great blond beard covers his barrel chest, and he runs a thumb through it in thought.

“Except that is exactly the kind of thing they _would_ do,” he says, kicking out his boot for emphasis. “You remember the old days, don’t you? Remember Lacroix? Codger like you should ‘less your memory’s going, too. Sabotage is like breathing to the likes of ‘em. They might’ve expected Jesse and rigged up something just for him to find. I wouldn’t put it past ‘em. Think about it: what if these points of interest all lead to some sort of trap?”

“Trap? Ha. Then we will destroy it. Even if they do all lead to a trap, that gives us the chance to thin their numbers. A poor decision on their part, and a benefit for us.” Reinhardt pauses to dip the cloth in a small canister by his haunches before continuing his polishing ritual. “Perhaps it is my imagination, but they seem to have grown so large. Amélie Lacroix was a tragedy, yes, but this appears to be so much more. I have not seen such involvement. Something is not right.”

“I’m with you on that,” says Torbjörn. “There is something else at work here. Ever since Gerard was murdered, we were never able to keep an eye on ‘em like we should’ve been. Going off and rooting about where they shouldn’t. Trying to get a hold of Doomfist and that omnic monk kicking the bucket are just the start. I can feel it.”

“Then it is good we have found Jack,” says Reinhardt. “Our purpose will benefit greatly from his guidance.”

“Oh, don’t go fooling yourself now, you great git,” says Torbjörn. “You heard him at the little get togethers we’ve had. Angela was able to bring him here for _discussion_ , and it’s been nothing but constant discussion ever since. Petty legalities, the Petras Act, Talon—he doesn’t even know if he’s going to stay. Instead he’s giving us a good old test run to see if the gears still churn like they used to. And even if he does stay, he has his own agenda now. I’ll admit, he’s got a point at what might’ve happened in Switzerland, but that’s… that’s going down a rabbit hole. And he wants to go run his own reconnaissance?” Torbjörn scratches at his balding scalp with thick fingers, brow pinched. “Just makes me think there’s definitely more here than what we bargained for.”

“I am afraid you are right, my friend.” Reinhardt lowers his arm, cloth bunched in a giant fist, and he leans his elbow over his knee. His strong jaws sidle back and forth, his blind eye a pale milk under the workshop lights, his white main gleaming warm platinum. “There is something amiss here, and it is present through everything. It’s clear now that Jack’s death was not an accident. Neither was Gabriel’s. Something happened that day, and whatever it was, it sealed Overwatch’s fate and buried it with their graves. I know he means to seek out the truth, but I fear it may be beyond him. Beyond us.”

“Even if we manage to thwart Talon from retrieving another Doomfist, what’s going to happen next? What is their end goal here?” Torbjörn thumbs through the schematics in his lap, his nose wrinkled in distaste. “These acts of terrorism must serve some greater purpose. They aren’t random. Can’t be. Getting a hold of Doomfist would give them a massive advantage, and assassinating that omnic was cold and calculated. I don’t like omnics, but I don’t want another war. If there were any blasted omnic out there worth preserving, it would have been that one, and they went and made it into scrap.”

“It is a shame. A terrible, terrible shame. Mondatta was our best chance at peace.” Reinhardt heaves a sigh, his massive shoulders curling inward as he puts his strength into hoisting himself onto his feet. “And now we have no individual to bridge the gap between ourselves and omnics. I have heard that London grows forever worse, and there is trouble in Russia, too. Ana has told me tensions are roiling. It won’t be long before something terrible comes to pass.”

“And then it’s just us. Us, and the scraps of some old organization that couldn’t even outlive its purpose.” Torbjörn shakes his head before glancing upward from his set of blueprints. When he realizes he and Reinhardt are not alone, he clears his throat and swats at his friend. “Well, well! Symmetra, where have you been? It’s been strange not having you in here the past couple of days. Too busy with your little light weaving to stop by and say hello?”

“It is far more than light weaving, you know. There are other complexities involved.” Satya approaches with tentative steps, hands laced. “And I would have you know that I’ve stopped by once or twice.”

“Ha. You and the beanpole. Both of you grabbing a bunch and then slinking off. You know the workshop is for _working_ , right? That’s what it’s here for. No idea why you’d rather hole up somewhere else. This place isn’t nearly as equipped as it should be, anyway.”

“Junkrat was here?” Satya tries to temper back the interest in her voice, but it bleeds through in spite of her best efforts.

“Well, of course he was,” says Torbjörn. “He’s not anymore, though, as you can see.”

Reinhardt drapes the polishing cloth over his shoulder. “He left some time ago. I don’t know where he went, but I believe he came in here looking for pencils. It was about two hours ago, if I remember correctly. Are you looking for him?”

“He stole something of mine,” says Satya. “I aim to retrieve it.”

“Stole?” Torbjörn seems amused. “What exactly did the rat steal from you? Surely not one of your tiny turrets.”

“He happened to steal a set of blueprints that are of the utmost importance,” she says, providing Torbjörn with a pointed stare. “They depict the prototype designs of a communicator that I have been developing with Mei’s help. Without them, we will not have a working model in time for deployment.”

“How strange,” says Reinhardt. “Why would he stoop to stealing something of that nature? It seems to me he has plenty of his own designs, and none of them are quite so… well, mundane, if I might be blunt.”

“I really don’t know,” she says, and it baffles her, because she truly doesn’t. “What I _do_ know is that he has made himself scarce ever since, and I do not know where he is. I need to get my schematics back so I can complete a selection of models in time.”

“It didn’t seem like he meant to return anytime soon. At least not from the other things he’d gathered. Perhaps he has established a workstation somewhere else?” Reinhardt shrugs, folding his arms together across the girth of his chest. “That is only assumption, however.”

“How much longer do the two of you plan to be in the workshop?” she asks.

“Oh, for a while yet. I’ve got some more bases to build. Couple new model turrets I’ve been meaning to try.” Torbjörn gives his good hand a flippant wave. “I don’t know. A few hours at the least.”

“I will be taking my leave once I have performed the Crusader’s proper maintenance,” says Reinhardt. “Perhaps another hour or so. I need to finish its polish, and then go through some routine checks to make sure it is up and running as it should.”

Satya nods affirmatively. “Might I ask you to direct Junkrat to me should you see him?”

“Sure. Consider it done. We’ll keep an eye out for you.” Torbjörn chuckles as he gestures to Reinhardt. “Well, he’ll keep an eye out. I’ll keep two.”

“Shush, little man,” says Reinhardt, taking the polishing cloth and swabbing it over Torbjörn’s head. “I doubt an extra eye will help you see anything from down there.”

Torbjörn sputters under the rag. “Get that thing off of me, you lummox!”

Reinhardt bears a mighty grin as he pulls it away. “Then perhaps you should not bite more than you can chew, _ja_?”

“Get me a hammer and I’ll show you chewing,” says Torbjörn, running his hand through his thinned hair overtop of his head. When he pulls it away, he presses his fingers together and pulls them apart in disgust at the lingering polish stuck between them. “Ugh. Did you have to use _that_ rag?”

“Of course! It humbles you, Torby. It will do your bald spot well. I think I can see myself in it.” Reinhardt pivots on his heel to regard Satya. He entertains a deep laugh in his husky voice, and he offers a satisfied smile. “Don’t worry, Symmetra. If we see Junkrat, you will the very first to know. I wish you luck in finding your blueprints. I advise you to take caution, however. Rats can be very skittish creatures. They may bite if threatened.”

Satya shoves the thought of Junkrat biting _anything_ with his pointed canines and golden teeth promptly out of her mind with unrivaled haste. “Somehow, I do not believe that will be a problem.”

“Well, do be on the lookout for bombs at the very least,” says Reinhardt. “He has quite the _explosive_ hobby, doesn’t he?”

She resists the urge to cradle her forehead against her palm. “He has influenced you.”

“What can I say?” Reinhardt shrugs. “The boy has a good sense of humor. I appreciate his jokes very much.”

“Try appreciating your armor just as much,” says Torbjörn. “Maybe I won’t have to repair the whole damn thing this time around.”

“You make it sound like it is in pieces by the time the combat is over. That is hardly the case. I take good care of my armor.”

“It certainly is the case,” argues Torbjörn. “There are at least three separate repairs I have to make after each mission. Don’t you remember how damaged it was after Dorado? Both arms were beyond function, and it was a wonder the legs were still working. Seven fractures in the hull, Reinhardt. _Seven_. And that isn’t including the damage in both gauntlets and down by the power core.”

“I promise you, that is not the usual outcome,” says Reinhardt, bristling at the accusation. “There happened to be three vehicles and two gatling guns. There were also other firearms, but I lost count of those after a while. I _do_ take good care of my armor, Dorado’s incident aside.”

Satya kneads circles above her eyes. “I think I will take my leave. I appreciate the gesture from the both of you. Be sure to let me know if Junkrat stops by.”

Torbjörn takes a swat at Reinhardt before rolling up the set of blueprints in his lap. “You have my word, Symmetra.”

“ _Our_ word,” corrects Reinhardt.

“Yes, yes, _our_ word,” says Torbjörn, managing an exaggerated roll of his eyes.

Although she is not quite convinced, Satya nods in appreciation. With renewed purpose, she turns back toward the workshop door, but before she presses the side key to slide it open, she takes pause. Reinhardt has returned to polishing the Crusader, and Torbjörn has wheeled himself over to the back tables in preparation for constructing what she assumes to be another turret. The two disproportionate men regard her with good natured smiles as she pivots back to them.

“You know, I heard you speaking of Overwatch.” Satya traces the joints of her left hand, and she hopes her voice does not sound as unsure as it seems. “Do you truly think we are in over our heads?”

Reinhardt’s fingers dig into the cloth as he works up the armor’s midsection. “It is possible,” he admits. “There is a lot happening in the world. There may be more than what we can handle. It is just the few of us against so many. But as time has proven, the world cannot defend itself. Innocents are vulnerable. There are uncharitable people in search of something that might level the world and there are growing tensions between us and omnics. Someone must step in.”

“And it looks like we’re that someone.” Torbjörn twists around to lean an arm across the back of his chair. “Even if we weren’t together here, we would be elsewhere doing the exact same thing, but alone instead. That comes with more risk. I wager it’s probably best to work together in this. Might be able to do some good, at the very least. If we can put a stop to whatever Talon is up to and put a damper on omnic tensions, then I’d say we’re treading water.”

“That is a fair assumption,” she says. “I hope the information McCree obtained will prove useful. If we manage to find the Doomfist, or whatever else they might be looking for, it would at least slow their plans.”

“That might be the best we can hope for.” Torbjörn drums his fingers along the chair’s backing, and he gives her a definitive nod. “Looks like we’ll have to see.”

Satya leaves the workshop with significantly less direction than she had when she’d arrived. While both Overwatch veterans insisted he had been by to gather pieces of his inventory for whatever reason, there is no telling where he had scrambled off to afterward. She supposes she could try the hangar as a second stop, but the possibility of Roadhog being present deters her from the thought. Satya has managed to muster just enough to endure an encounter with Junkrat, not Junkrat _and_ his massive masked bodyguard.

The mess hall—and the kitchen by proxy—seem like good candidates as well, but a part of her is quite certain she will not find him in either place. Junkrat, while seeming to enjoy the company of others, appears to be drawn to his own sort of solitude. He dwells at the workshop well into the dark hours of morning absorbed in crafting explosives, and if he is not there, then he makes himself at home with scattered remnants of his stock on Gibraltar’s outcrops with the sea down below. Whatever time is not spent doing either of those things, she assumes he retreats to the barracks for what little sleep he can manage, or, as she had experienced after Dorado, he pokes around for various sweets in the middle of the night.

His usual habits aside, if Junkrat is purposefully isolating himself like she suspects, then it is unlikely that he would attend such high traffic areas for long periods of time. She does not pretend to know how often he socializes with the rest of the team, but she _does_ know that if he is antsy and awaiting orders, he resorts to building. Wherever he is, it must account for both solitude and a place to work, and as far as she is aware, there are only a handful of areas among the outpost grounds that could offer such accommodations: the hangar, the workshop, the secluded spaces between the compound structures and the stony crags of the Rock, and what she can assume to be his space located in the other half of the barracks. The workshop has already proven a vain attempt, and when she had taken one of her ritual walks outside earlier this morning, the only person she had seen was Morrison, who had been making rounds to check the outpost’s perimeter.

That leaves both the hangar and the junkers’ niche in the barracks. And if she’s honest, she doesn’t know if she can bring herself to visit either one.

Satya approaches the infirmary, prickles of anxiety knitting through the column of her spine. The Incident has wrest itself to the forefront of her mind once more, just as it has for the past two days, and her fists clinch at the intrusion. All she can think of is the burnished plateaus of his shoulders, the ruddy tank askew, the taut muscle down his belly, the tousled fire of his hair, the gold glint of his teeth as he entertains yet another teasing smile. The stipples meshed over his cheekbones and across the bridge of his sharp nose are far too vivid, too close, too _real_ , burning beneath the heat of her stare, and if she closes her eyes, she can feel the warmth of his cheek against her mouth.

She should have left as soon as he found her, she thinks. She should have gathered her things, ignored him, him and his excuses and the tea boxes, and she should have sought the safety and comfort of her room. There, he wouldn’t have been able to bother her, and none of this would have happened. The Incident could have been entirely circumvented with one executive decision, and she hadn’t had the foresight to make it. Furious is only one emotion amid the amalgam.

Cupping her mouth with her left palm, the etched crystal of her gauntlet presses to her lips. It is warm from body heat and the technology integrated through the machinery, and it shouldn’t remind her so much of Junkrat. The gripping compulsion to repeat The Incident is something she has avoided to acknowledge to the utmost extent, and now that she is being coerced into finding him to retrieve her schematics, it is rousing up beneath her skin and plucking at faint possibilities toward the back of her skull.

No, she corrects. Not possibilities. They will never be possibilities. She will not let them.

Just before the infirmary entrance, the sound of Mercy’s voice piques her interest. Taking pause, Satya glances through the crack in the door, but there is nothing but a view of empty beds and drawn privacy curtains toward the rightmost wall. She must be toward the back of the room, she thinks, at least from the strength of her voice, or perhaps more toward the center.

“There, I believe that should do it for today,” says Mercy. “My apologies that it took so long to complete. The session was a bit extended, but I suppose the long term benefits will outweigh a little extra time spent here, don’t you think?”

“Yeah. Reckon so.” The timbre of Junkrat’s voice harpoons panic through her sternum. It is low, quiet, and somehow despondent.

“Everything seems to be coming along just fine, though,” she says. “You appear to be responding quite well. Vitals are strong, symptoms have lessened. I think with continued treatment, the footprint of your exposure may be reduced to the point of nonexistence. That may take a while, however. Undoing such damage is an intensive process. Still, this will do wonders for your quality of life in the future. It might not seem like it now, but the effects of—”

“Oi, can I go now?”

There is a moment or two of silence. Satya resists the temptation to move closer toward the door, and instead remains planted where she stands by the outer wall of the infirmary. While she had expected Mercy to be tending to someone before deployment, she most certainly had not been expecting that someone to be Junkrat. And to further dismantle expectations, she had not anticipated overhearing something quite so serious.

Satya presses herself against the cool metal of the wall and tries to concentrate on willing her heart back down her throat where it belongs.

“Yes,” Mercy says at last. It is whispered with a soft sigh; not one of exasperation, but of acquiescence. “Yes, you may leave. I apologize for keeping you. I get caught up sometimes. Shall we meet again next week? Same time? Well, pending no other missions, of course, and should our schedules align.”

“Yeah. Sure. Might as well.” There is the distinct sound of shifting, as if he were sliding off of one of the ivory-clad beds, and then she can hear the click of his prosthetic hitting the smoothness of the floor. “Thanks, Doc. ‘Preciate it.”

“Certainly. You know, I think your abdominal injury those weeks ago has done you a great favor. Somehow, I don’t think you would have agreed to a physical had you not suffered it. It is my job to ensure everyone is healthy, but I cannot exactly administer treatment to the unwilling.”

“Yeah, well, never really had the chance for seeing a proper doc, y’know. Got some that call themselves docs, but they ain’t got all them papers or pretty coats. Rugged types, right. None of this stuff here. All them gadgets. And not like that stick you got, neither.”

“I will have you know that it is far more than just a stick,” says Mercy, entertaining a light laugh. “It is the product of years’ and years’ worth of medical advancement compacted into the _shape_ of a stick.”

“Still a stick,” he says. Perhaps it is her imagination, but he sounds less downcast than a minute ago.

“Well, you aren’t wrong, I suppose,” says Mercy. “But I believe integrated biotic technology makes it a less primitive stick than most.”

The urge to gather herself and retreat brims beneath her skin, but Satya stoppers it with a definitive clench of her fist. While she cannot face him here—and she can’t, not here and not now and not with Mercy present—it is imperative that she know where he intends to go. The thought of following him knots in writhing distress by her belly, but her blueprints trump her own personal comfort. She is sure Winston has been expecting something from her since yesterday, and she has nothing to show for all of the effort she has put forth into the project.

There is no choice but to confront Junkrat and recover what he took, and with The Incident constantly lingering on the outskirts of her awareness, dread saws in deep between her heartstrings.

“Oh! Here, do you need any assistance?”

“Nah, I’m fine.” A strained grunt shortly follows the sound of scuffling. “Just a bit wonky is all. I can walk.”

“Do be careful on your way back, Junkrat,” says Mercy. “I suggest you lie down for a while, if you can. Getting rest will help, and goodness knows you haven’t been getting much of it from the look of you. Listen, if you start to feel particularly nauseous or experience any signs of fever, please let me know. You have been responding well, but reactions are always a possibility.”

“I know, I know. No worries. I’ll pop back down if I get sick and chunder.”

The scuffs of footsteps spur from within, and with alarm shredding like shrapnel through her veins, Satya spins about to backtrack the way she’d come. Just to the side is a sizable alcove situated between the corridor and the jutting walls that construct the front portion of the makeshift infirmary. There is just enough space for her to slip in without being seen, and without another thought, she folds herself inside.

“Please take care of yourself,” says Mercy. Satya can catch a glimpse from her vantage point; Mercy’s pale lab coat cloaks her lithe frame, and her thick hair has been tied into a messy tail. “And I do mean that, you know. It isn’t something I’m rattling off just because it’s my job. Self-care is very important. I do not expect or require everyone to be in peak physical condition, but I strive to have this team in a good state of health. I can only do so much; the rest must be done by you. And that is starting with sleep.”

Junkrat limps out into the corridor beside her. His ripped shorts hug at his hips, the smiling patches staring at her from where he stands, his back and shoulders pleasantly bare. She cannot see his face from the angle he’s assumed, although she can see the rigid muscle by his shoulder blades and the glinting hard-light blade sheathed at the back of his belt.

“Look, s’not like I don’t try or nothing,” he says, metal hand cupping at the back of his neck. “Tried all sorts of things. Sleep just don’t happen. S’always been like that. Since I can remember, anyway. Didn’t really have the time for it before. Probably what did it. Not everybody’s got swanky places like this to conk out, y’know.”

“Swanky?” Mercy smiles in amusement. “I don’t quite think this would be classified as such, although I’m sure whoever engineered this facility would be pleased to know you think that.”

“Beats most places I’ve been,” says Junkrat. His posture holds better than usual, she notes, even though he still assumes a slight hunch. The urge to tap at his lower back to coax him straight comes to mind, and she holds in a shallow breath to stave it off.

“Fair enough. Before you leave, are you absolutely sure you don’t have any copies of your medical history?” Mercy gives him an appraising look. There is concern in her stare, and it is reminiscent of a mother chiding her son. “It would help a great deal, you know. Having a set of comprehensive documentation would prevent me from building it from scratch, and it would let me know whether you would be at risk for anything important.”

“Never bothered with stuff like that. No point, really. Didn’t need it. I mean, if you saw one of the docs in Junkertown, that’s when you got something wrong with you that either you can’t fix or that can’t fix itself. Things’d be bad if you went to one of them. Probably… I dunno. All the internal junk.” Junkrat shrugs, knocking beneath his ribs with his metal hand. “Something like that.”

“Well, what about your arm and leg?” asks Mercy. “Surely those were seen to by some sort of professional?”

“Nah. Did the leg meself.” He kicks at the floor for emphasis. “Arm was done by some sheila and her old man a long while back. No docs involved. Well, not really. She were some sort of doc, I think. S’a bit fuzzy. Don’t think she did that sort of thing, though. Amputating. More of a turn your head and cough kinda deal.”

The color has drained from Mercy’s face. She holds her knuckles to her mouth, and she stares down at the ungainly peg leg he uses for a supplement. “I… I apologize. I think I might have misheard. You did your leg yourself?”

“Yeah, I did. You heard right.” He bunches the tattered camouflage in his hand and lifts it just enough. “Weren’t much of it to lop off, honestly. Mine did the most of the work for me. Just had the knee and a bit below left, all busted and in shreds, and knew that had to go, so it did.” A rumpled noise of distaste couples a shiver. “Cauterizing ain’t no treat. Dunno how you lot do it.”

“With copious amounts of anesthesia,” says Mercy, shaking her head.

As Junkrat offers a casual wave goodbye and a “see you, Doc,” it occurs to Satya that he must have been coming to visit the infirmary for quite a while. From how Mercy had mentioned his previous injury, she suspects it has been since she the night she’d found him lying in bed with an IV strapped to his arm. She has no doubt that Mercy would have been very thorough with his recovery, especially considering the amount of effort she had put into scrubbing him clean, and she must have unearthed more concerning Junkrat’s health than he had been willing to divulge. With her care and dedication, it doesn’t come as a surprise that she has convinced him to return to tend to whatever problem has revealed itself.

Pressing the palm of her gauntlet against her mouth, Satya watches Junkrat as he lopes further down the opposite end of the corridor. Mercy has returned to the infirmary, the door shut tight, and the opportunity to follow has arisen. Her limbs hold a heaviness to them, thick and laden with encasing stone, and although she knows the task at hand is to retrieve her schematics, she finds that she cannot move.

Junkrat pauses halfway down the corridor. It is sudden, abrupt, as if he had just remembered something important, and he appears to glance over at one of the nearby walls. He stands there for a moment, silent and still, before coiling down to his haunches. His hands climb through his hair; his back arcs forward and he seems to tremble as his fingers clench through shocks of unkempt blond.

“Fucking hell.”

It echoes down the vacant hall, soft and rigid with frustrated intensity. Similar curses follow, but they dwindle in volume and soon become whispered chains ushering forth between golden molars. Slowly, Junkrat combs his good hand down the back of his head and digs it along his trapezius plane. His prosthetic lowers, curling the orange metal into a fist. He punches it to the floor and uses it as leverage to lift himself back to his feet. He wobbles for a moment or two, but his equilibrium appears to realign, and he then continues his path back toward the barracks as if he had never stopped.

When he is fully out of sight, Satya emerges from the alcove with tentative steps. The weight in her legs has lessened, but it still holds a presence through her calves and around her ankles. Her pulse is a steady throb in her neck at the thought of pursuing him. There is no question of what she needs to do, and yet she cannot bring herself to do it. She lets her nails sink into her palm.

Is she really going to allow such ridiculous and petty feelings to interfere with her work?

The most frustrating part is not that The Incident happened, or that the desire for situations like The Incident have begun to burn beneath her fingertips, or even that she suspects Junkrat will bring up The Incident in some manner which will force her to explain herself. No, the most frustrating part is that The Incident in itself seems to be consuming, and it has begun to dominate all aspects of her thought processes. This vulnerability—she knew it, she knew it right from the start, she _knew_ —is affecting her in ways it never should, and as she has discovered through her inexplicable attraction to a bomb loving madman, her coping methods are woefully inept.

This encounter needs to be on her terms, she knows, but she does not even fully know what her terms _are_. She needs the advantage here, just as she would in any diplomatic situation; she needs her blueprints, she needs him to hand them over without argument or smug commentary, and she needs to effectively quash any mention of The Incident or avoid its mention altogether, and yet there is nothing that could give her the upper hand. There is only The Incident, her blueprints, and his assumed reluctance. Not a level playing field by any means.

Satya begins to follow in his footsteps, trepidation lining her veins, but when she goes to pass the infirmary door, Mercy’s observations on Junkrat’s progress makes her halt mid-step. She bites at the inside of her mouth, dwelling on _exposure_. During The Incident, she is certain she remembers Junkrat mentioning the risk of bartered foods being irradiated. Although she is not completely familiar with the intricacies of Australia’s past, it is no secret that the country was war ravaged in the aftermath of the Omnic Crisis. After reparations and reconstruction, the omnium that had been located in the central Outback had suffered a meltdown and subsequently drenched the extensive hinterlands in a state of nuclear fallout. If that region is from where he hails, it would not be surprising if he had undergone some sort of radiation exposure during his time spent there.

It is none of her business, she knows, it would never be, and yet she opens the infirmary door and steps inside.

Mercy sits over toward the left side of the room, a sleek black desk tucked into the closest corner. The overhead lights sluice the area in harsh fluorescents, tinged too white and too bright and nearly blue, and it casts the pallor of her skin far too pale. Her rich blond hair is blanched and snowy, the cool color of her eyes soaked in silver. With one leg crossed and her thin glasses pressed close up the bridge of her nose, she takes to scribbling over a moderate packet of paperwork—Junkrat’s rather lacking medical records, Satya assumes.

It takes a moment or two before Mercy looks up from her writing. As Satya meets her gaze, her mouth shapes an _oh_ , as if she had expected Junkrat to come loping back instead of another visitor. Donning an amicable smile, she leaves the pen across the stack of papers and rises from her seat.

“Symmetra, how lovely of you to drop by. What brings you here? Not getting sick, I hope?” She fixes the rolled sleeves of her coat before stepping away from the desk. “I know it’s summer, but illness does not exactly take seasons into account. Were you looking to have a wellness exam before we head out?”

“No, I am not, but I appreciate the offer,” says Satya. “I am actually looking for Junkrat.”

“Really?” Her steps slow as she approaches, and her countenance takes upon an inquisitive air. “Well, luckily for you, you just missed him. He left only a few minutes ago. I believe he went to have a nap, or at least that’s what I suggested he do. Whether he actually decides to listen to me is another matter altogether.”

“He does seem to have unfortunate sleeping patterns. I have seen him awake at strange hours more often than not,” says Satya. That isn’t exactly what she’d sanctioned her mouth to reply with; the desire to skirt around her purpose for being here has trumped logic and reason.

“I believe that says a bit more about your sleeping patterns than his,” says Mercy, stifling a chuckle behind her palm.

“I see. Perhaps it does.” In the spaces beneath her eyelids, the kitchen steeps in the darkness of midnight drenched morning, Junkrat cloaked in a swath of forest green. “Although, I will say I wake before noon with far more consistency than him.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true. His appearances at breakfast are few and far between these days. And he was doing so well, too. Still, I should think some sleep is better than no sleep at all. Of course, the body’s circadian rhythms will be thrown out of balance, regardless of either option, but there would be less sleep debt involved with the former.”

“That is true,” she admits.

Mercy regards Satya with searching eyes. She folds her arms, her palms cradling at her elbows, and she tilts her head to the side in thought. “So, is there a particular reason you are inquiring after Junkrat? You know, I remember your suggestion to keep my observations to myself quite clearly. I will respect that, of course. However, as a doctor, it is my duty to ask if you need my expertise.”

Satya does not know how to interpret that. She remembers when she had made the aforementioned suggestion: it was after Ilios, after Junkrat had saved her life, after he’d scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the white cobble square; it was after she’d slept on the return trip aboard the ORCA with his shoulder beneath her cheek; it was after Mercy had restored her leg to its former strength and sat at her bedside with a clipboard in hand.

Her throat has a desiccated feel. When she swallows, the sensation of warm sandpaper rubbing against damp skin comes to mind. Now that she can reflect upon it, it becomes more and more apparent that her attraction to Junkrat has gone on for far longer than she has been willing to admit. When on earth had it _started_?

“Symmetra?”

“I overheard something concerning a few minutes ago,” she manages at last.

An asphyxiating sort of guilt smothers her at the admission. And it shouldn’t, she knows—she would act in the same manner for any other member of the team; she would; _truly_ —but it still clamps along the corridor of her throat and taps its fingers beneath the curves of her jaws. What sort of person lurks around doctors’ quarters to eavesdrop on patient conversations? is the burning question, something she’s sure is running through Mercy’s head, and the only answer that comes back in an echoing chorus against adrenaline-webbed nerves is _me_.

Mercy drums her fingers against the knob of her elbow. She does not appear to be fazed. “You do realize it would be highly unethical for me to share such confidential information with you. Patients are patients, and everyone is entitled to their privacy. Regardless of whether the setting is in a hospital or here in Gibraltar, disclosing medical records with an unauthorized party is illegal.”

“It was my understanding that he did not have any.” Satya’s palm feels damp, and she realizes too late that that was not something she should have said.

“Well, as correct as that is, my point still stands.” The ends of Mercy’s mouth shape into a thin smile. “I wouldn’t worry. He is young, and he is under my care. I was not recruited into Overwatch at such a young age for my hair, you know.”

“I did notice the other day that some of his has started to grow back,” says Satya.

“It is, yes. Very astute. By the time we are through, I believe most of it should be. I can’t say that for certain, though. Age and male pattern baldness may rear its ugly head in twenty more years. Or perhaps fifteen.” She shrugs with a cock of her head. “Give or take five years. Depends on the genes, really. Some are more fortunate—or unfortunate—than others.”

“Then what I overheard was not so concerning.” Satya kneads her fingers together, and the familiar heat of discomfort climbs up the back of her neck. None of this was her business, she thinks, none of it; she never should have listened to begin with. “I… I do apologize for intruding. It really was not my place. It was just—”

“There is no need to apologize. I understand the compulsion.” Mercy slides off her glasses and begins to clean them with the lapel of her lab coat. “You can put your trust in me, and you have my word that there is nothing to worry about. The current situation aside and disregarding any ramifications unprofessional amputations might have caused, he is in fact a very healthy individual. I ran a full physical, which he was quite unhappy about, and without disclosing any details, he did extremely well.”

The thought of Junkrat being forced onto a table to have his vitals taken with a displeased frown presents a rather amusing image. “That does not surprise me,” she says.

Mercy pushes her glasses back up onto the bridge of her nose. “It is to be expected, I suppose. He does seem to be in remarkable physical condition. He has mentioned pieces of what he has endured in the remote parts of Australia, and it only makes sense that he should be so fit. Survival of the fittest, after all. He might not have Reinhardt’s physique, but I’m sure he could hold a candle to it if he tried.”

Satya has trouble parsing her meaning. Is this supposed to be Mercy’s way of sanctioning whatever sort of absurd attraction Satya has developed without shaping it into a personal observation? The thought is ridiculous, but she swears Mercy is somehow implying he is handsome from a medical standpoint rather than a personal one, and she has no idea how to react.

“Now, with all of that out of the way,” says Mercy, “perhaps it is best you go after him and catch him before he falls asleep. I don’t know what time he retired last night, but I remember seeing him at nine o’clock a good while after dinner, and then again at six-thirty when I woke, so it is possible exhaustion has caught up to him.” She pauses, pursing her lips pensively. “If I might ask, why exactly are you searching for him?”

“He happened to steal a set of important blueprints,” says Satya. “And a prototype of mine as well. I don’t know why he saw it fit that he should take them, but he did, and now I need them back. They are what will help develop a communicator for our team to use. I mean to have a working model before our group is deployed. He happens to be preventing that.”

“I see. Well, that is certainly poor behavior from him. Not that his behavior is particularly stellar to begin with. From my experiences so far, he is nearly as stubborn as Jack.”

“I think you would be correct,” says Satya. “His obstinacy and recklessness have resulted in injury several times.”

Mercy indulges in a light laugh. “That is Jack to a T. I find Reinhardt and Jesse exhibit similar traits, too, although that may just be their natural bluster.”

“I believe all of them have natural bluster,” says Satya.

“Well, you aren’t wrong. Perhaps that is simply men, though. I think Ana would have a better idea. She worked with all of them for many years, much more closely than I did, and I’m sure she has seen incredible amounts of bluster.” Mercy offers an encouraging smile. “All right, I think that is enough for now. You said those blueprints were extremely important, correct? Dawdling here will not help matters and prolonging the inevitable won’t do you any favors. And I don’t know if Junkrat intends to follow my advice, but I doubt he would go back to sleep if disturbed in his current state, so perhaps it is best you take your leave.”

“I was not dawdling,” replies Satya, her tone somewhat stiffer than she had anticipated. “I was merely concerned about whether his condition would yield detrimental effects to his performance during our upcoming deployment. I have to rely on him, after all. All of us do.”

Mercy folds her hands across her belly, her countenance shaped with skepticism and the side of her mouth pinched in a smirk. “Well, as the resident physician of this facility, allow me to reassure you that his condition will hold no such impact. Junkrat is robust and healthy, and with a regimen of continued treatment, he will only improve. The only detriment he should worry about right now is his lack of sleep, as that is how the body rejuvenates, but that is another beast altogether. It is also one I cannot help with unless he wishes to be administered heavy sedatives, and judging from his dislike of pharmaceuticals, I doubt he would be willing.”

Satya notices a particularly heavy breath leave the spaces of her lungs. “It appears I can’t comment on his sleeping habits,” she says, “but it is good to know he will be all right. I don’t know what sort of thing we can expect when we reach our destination, wherever it is, but that leaves one less vulnerability in the grand scheme of things.”

“Ah. A chain is only as good as its weakest link, correct? That is the saying?”

“Yes, I believe it is,” says Satya.

“With that analogy in mind—medically speaking, at least—there is no worry,” says Mercy. “I find his mercenary status more concerning than his health, to be perfectly honest, although that doesn’t say much. This arrangement seems to be working out far better than expected. His expertise with explosives has proven to be very useful despite his madness, and not only has he been trustworthy so far, he takes pride in his work. While it bears repeating that he and his large friend have been hired at Winston’s behest, I don’t quite see that as weakness. Perhaps it could be construed as one, but I don’t think so.”

“You don’t view hired mercenaries as a weakness?” Satya reflects on her own status for a moment, and then adds, “Well, those who are here solely for monetary gain.”

“There are billions of people in the world, Symmetra. All of them have opposing thoughts, feelings, and beliefs.” She laces her fingers together. The smoothness of her features hold a degree of harshness, and it is a sobering expression. “Organizations such as this one bring them together for the greater good. We are here because we want to put a stop to what may bring about another war. We are here because we care about what happens to the world, even if it is only a little. I think, regardless of the monetary gain or criminal absolution involved, if one joins such a group, then perhaps there is a little more to them than meets the eye.”

Mercy pivots on her foot, lab coat swirling at her thighs, and she makes her way back toward her desk. The stillness of the infirmary suddenly seems suffocating; the pale white sheets and silver tools and crisp ivory counters lining the walls encroach with a heavy presence. It shouldn’t, but it reminds her of the night she wandered the halls to find Junkrat sprawled in slumber among the white swathed mattresses.

“Well, as much as I would like to avoid it, I have some rather empty medical records to fill and you have a set of blueprints to recover. I believe the both of us have dawdled on long enough.” Folding the ends of her lab coat beneath her, she lowers herself to her chair and gives the stack of paperwork a disapproving sigh. “I wish you luck,” she says, flashing Satya a passing glance. “When you see Junkrat, do tell him to take a nap for me, would you? I know he won’t listen, but if it’s more than just me, maybe he might start to consider it.”

“I will try,” she replies, and the thought coils something foreign behind her lungs.

When Satya leaves the infirmary, she finds herself in a suspended state somewhere between relief and apprehension. The halls swim by along the outskirts of her vision, a blurred silver in her peripheral, and despite her outward composure, there is a mounting sensation of dread picking among her bones. While Satya is aware she should have pursued Junkrat after he’d exited the infirmary, as she’s sure she could have had her schematics back by now had she decided to follow, there is a sliver of her that is glad she hadn’t. Mercy had provided respite, even if it had been brief.

Still, no matter how much Satya would rather disregard the truth of her words, Mercy had been correct in her observation: it was ultimately idle time spent avoiding the task at hand.

The Incident runs fresh in her mind once again, and there is no way to banish it.

The way to the other half of the barracks is not too far from the first. There are a few additional corners she has to round, as both sections mirror one another in the compound’s architecture, but the distance is minimal. Satya finds that the entryway is a similar open space with a small enclosure meant for a common room, and then the area beyond is funneled in through mazelike walls with sizable alcoves situated as individual rooms. Everything appears to be quite vacant, much to her relief, and as she traverses the knitted spaces, she discovers that most of the men keep their sleeping quarters relatively neat. Reinhardt’s in particular, she notes, with old tattered posters of bygone artists and celebrities tacked upon the walls and the bed tucked in with a precision that would rival her own. The only exception, she finds, is McCree, who either has not settled in just yet or has far messier habits than she would care to entertain.

It is a strange sort of irony, she thinks, to realize that the junkers have taken residence in one of the very backmost areas with little contact from the other members—just where hers would be if one were looking at the mirrored wings. Her heart has begun to throb beneath adrenaline’s duress, and as she approaches the first of the two rooms, her footsteps become trod over by Roadhog’s heavy gait.

With a massive arm pressing up against the ceiling, Roadhog plods out of the room he had chosen to her right, the entryway just enough to allow his bulk through. Although the rest of the facility boasts doors and architecture that would better accommodate him, the barracks’ seems to be pushing it. His mask is fastened over his face as per usual, his pale camouflage trousers tucked beneath his belly, and as he gives her a long look behind blank black eyes, he pulls in a deep inhale and cocks his head to the side, as if questioning her presence.

“I am here to see Junkrat,” she says, keeping her voice firm and even. “He has something of mine and I wish to have it back. Is he here?”

A few moments tick by. Roadhog’s breathing is a husky cadence over the quiet of the barracks. He seems to be paring her apart beneath the obscurity of his mask, and the thought forces a skip in her heartbeat. He glances over his shoulder further down the corridor, the white knot of his hair brushing the top of his room’s threshold, and he jerks a thick thumb in the direction toward Junkrat before ducking back inside.

Tentatively, Satya steps forward. Five strides put her beside Roadhog’s space, where she affords a hasty glance within. It is a larger room than most, she notes, bare and void of any personal items aside from what looks to be a folded set of clothes as well as his large harness and an array of firearms tucked away into a corner. Roadhog has situated himself over top of the mattress, a giant hand spread over his stomach, bare feet hanging off of its end. The bed looks to be reinforced, oddly enough; she has a suspicion that Reinhardt had played some part in its state. She captures glints of what look to be miniature safes shoved beneath the bedframe, but she can’t be sure.

Ten strides put her past Roadhog, and it’s then that she catches sight of the traps. Toward the room further down at the left, just before the corridor snags a hard turn and continues along the back wall to where she assumes Torbjörn’s room is located, there are a slew of large bear traps splayed open over the cool metal floor. Their jaws are jagged and sharp, teeth crowing to the ceiling, and the sheer size is enough to send an apprehensive shiver down the column of her backbone. Three of them are poised out where passersby might have their feet unceremoniously crunched, and as she draws closer with attentive, careful steps, two more come into view, tucked just inside the alcove of Junkrat’s room.

If she’s brutally honest, it’s much less unsightly than she had imagined.

Junkrat’s bed is pressed against the back right-hand corner, perpendicular to the door, the head of the mattress flush with both walls. There are tin boxes scattered about the floor between the waiting maws of bear traps; she assumes each to contain some flavor of personal belonging or extra compounds he has not yet bothered to stash in the workshop. Crumpled papers litter the space down along the bedframe, some balled up with acute precision and others simply squashed and tossed as if they held content of little importance. His grenade launcher lies across the chest at the foot of his bed, coupled with a cluster of grinning shells by its smile-etched mouth, and there appears to be a slew of various detonators lying by its handle. His single boot rests on the floor nearby.

As she takes a step beyond the threshold, she notes that the rest of the room is rather bare. There are no adornments to the walls like Reinhardt’s quarters or McCree’s, and the wardrobe stowed toward the left side of the room appears to have been untouched. The desk nearby has a small lamp and rumpled sets of what look to be new designs of Junkrat’s making; they are poised upon the faded, weathered sheets that hail from his notebook, and despite their dog-eared edges and lack of pristine gridwork to usher uniformity and order to any designs, the faint details she can discern from her vantage point suggest he has poured a great amount of time into their creation.

If he cared to tidy up a little, the area might not be so bad.

Junkrat is too busy scribbling in his bed to notice her presence. He is hunched over, pillow brought into his lap to substitute a desk, and he seems to be absorbed in drawing something on one of the worn pages in his notebook. The splintered pencil she remembers from her moments next to him aboard the ORCA sets tight in his good hand, thumb and forefinger pinched together to keep it steady. Nose wrinkled and tongue set between his teeth, Junkrat scratches something out with a fierce vigor and mutters something under his breath; a choice array of curses, she assumes.

There is no sign of her schematics here, at least not that she can see, and Satya starts to wonder if he had truly taken them. Perhaps they had been swept out to sea before she had gathered the nerve to return, and her prototype is now resting somewhere on the jagged beach down below the Rock.

Sucking a frustrated breath between his teeth, Junkrat drops his pencil on the page and combs his hand through his widow’s peak and sinks his fingers through his charcoal tipped hair. He slumps back against the stark wall, pillow tucked in the fold of his left leg—his peg is missing, perhaps stowed somewhere she cannot see. The rich green blanket she’d seen him with curled about his body is bunched toward the bottom of the bed, rucked up in a pile along with the plain white sheet and what looks to be a thin quilt that had been employed for summer’s use. His brow draws tight with palpable tension; his metal hand taps an erratic rhythm on the notebook’s edge, his broad shoulders slacked and his ribs rising with a deep inhale.

When he opens his eyes and catches her stare, he jolts backward in shock. The shabby notebook takes an impromptu leap off the bed, and the pencil shortly follows, rolling to tap against the square body of one of the nearby tins. His left hand twitches as if it were entertaining one of the detonators at the foot of his bed, and Satya is suddenly very glad that Reinhardt had managed to talk them both out of setting up things like tripwire traps.

“Hello,” she says. Her even tone does much to conceal the unbearable hammering behind her breastbone, and she hopes it is not as loud as it seems.

“G’day,” says Junkrat. He clears his throat and thumps at his heart with a fist. “Was wondering when you’d be about. Took you long enough. ‘Bout bloody time.”

“So you were expecting me, then. I see I was correct in my conclusion.” She folds her arms, regarding him with a firm gaze. “Wait a moment. _That_ is your reaction? You stole something incredibly important to my work, to the entire team’s wellbeing and success, and all you can say is ‘about bloody time’?”

“Well, I’m not wrong,” he says. “Coulda dropped by hell of a lot sooner if they’re that important. ‘Sides, I didn’t nick ‘em or nothing. Just snatched for safekeeping. Reckon you’d be cross as a frog in a sock if they got lost or ended up in the bloody ocean, so I grabbed ‘em for you.”

“You are truly remarking on my absence?” Satya makes a scoffing noise in her throat. “You made a point to avoid the entire team for two days. Hardly anyone has seen you. We have had four meetings pertaining to this organization’s future during that time, and you have missed every single one.”

“Oi, look, not everybody likes hearing Scarface yabber on and on about politics, y’know,” he says, scrunching his nose in distaste. “Got better things to do than sit and listen to that natter. Got bombs to build and some new designs needing proper work. I ain’t gonna stick around and wait on some high and mighty executive decision that don’t even involve me. S’just a waste. Hate waiting enough as it is. No point. Why bother when I could just hole up somewhere and work on me stock?”

“Because these meetings will affect you in some way, regardless of whether you think they are important or not,” she says. “They will decide the course of our immediate future and where we will focus our efforts as it pertains to Talon’s activities as well as Doomfist. Why wouldn’t you want to attend something so important?”

Junkrat takes his chin in his palm and cracks his neck. “‘Cause it’s a bleeding waste. I ain’t making no decisions here. M’not some exec or fancy suit. Just me. I get told to blow something up and I do it. Simple as that.”

“I should hope for your sake that none of our future mission dossiers outline a need for diplomacy,” says Satya.

“Dunno why. That’d be your job, right, not mine. I’m the one man demolition crew. I blast walls and any bastards that get in the way. You’re the one who’s got all the charm and diplomacy.”

“Charm?” The word takes her by surprise, and she doesn’t know why.

“Well. Yeah. Don’t see why not.” His left hand scratches at his hairline behind his ear, and she swears a faint tinge of color tips at his ears. “S’what your job was before here, right? Talking to bunches of big time suits, smooth talking ‘em into deals?”

“In some situations, yes,” she says, watching as his fingers tense into the pillow in his lap. “In others, no. I juggled a few roles while I was at Vishkar. Architechs do more than simply design and build. Oftentimes I would serve as an envoy in Vishkar’s stead to entertain potential prospects.”

“Right, yeah, so it’s just as I said. Charm and diplomacy.” Junkrat rolls his shoulders, and his eyes glance to the notebook and pencil upon the floor. He seems to be fighting the urge to retrieve his things, whether as a polite courtesy to her or for some other reason, she can’t be certain.

“Well, absences and meetings aside, it would be appreciated if you could return my blueprints and the prototype I’d built,” says Satya. “Winston mentioned that a group of us will be deployed to one of the locations marked by Talon in two days, and I wish to have a functioning model by then. It will give us a greater advantage and we will have to worry less about the others should we need to split up.”

“Yeah. Sure.” He shudders back a jaw cracking yawn. “Give me a tick.”

Rubbing at his eye with the heel of his left palm, Junkrat pushes the pillow aside and slides his leg toward the edge of the bed. His grubby patchwork trousers have been discarded, she finds, and he instead wears a thin pair of dark red undershorts. He slides off the bed with little trouble, and then uses the mattress as a guide to lower himself down to the floor. Lanky leg poised askew and the stump of his thigh tucked beneath him at an angle, he dips down by his bed and begins to rummage through whatever is underneath.

She shouldn’t, she really shouldn’t, but she watches him with interest. The muscles in his back strain and grow taut with his movements, his shoulder blades rising in plateaus as he lowers himself further against the floor to get a better look beneath the mattress. The pale line of where his harness once was traces over his spine, and she closes her eyes before she can look at the curved dip down his back that leads to the waistband of his undershorts.

The Incident has resurfaced in full force, and she regrets everything.

“Ah, there we go. Hiding all the way back there. Don’t remember stuffing ‘em quite so far back. Musta shifted.” Junkrat drags himself out from the bed and arcs into a proper sit. He holds the rolled sheaf in one hand; the sleek prototype is clutched in the metal of his other. With a grin, he wiggles them at her, as if pleased. “See? All accounted for. Nicked, she says. What use would I get out of ‘em?”

With a great deal of care, she crosses the threshold and enters Junkrat’s room. “To sell, perhaps,” she suggests. “Since you seem to like stockpiling things of monetary value.”

“Nah, I ain’t in the market for them sorts of things. Too specialized. Not my kind of job. Not like them things’d be useful to anybody else ‘cept your own lot. They all got glowy hand tricks to go with it. Not like anybody else does. Oi, oi, watch the traps!” He nudges the blueprint roll in the direction of her feet. “They’ll get real snappy if you’re not looking.”

Satya twists halfway to glance at another two steps away that she hadn’t noticed. “And _why_ do you keep these in here again?”

“Habit,” he says, offering a shrug. “Just feels right, I guess. S’like I’m in the nuddy without ‘em.”

She pauses mid-step. “In the what?”

“Nuddy. Stripped. Naked. Birthday suit. Whatever you feel like calling no clothes.” He holds out her prototype with his metal hand, eyebrows arched in what she perceives as amusement.

“A rather… odd comparison,” Satya remarks. She reaches out and accepts the communicator between her palms, giving it a once over before placing it in her trouser pocket. It is neither dirty nor damaged, and she supposes she should be thankful with his explosive tendencies.

“Eh, just seems better with ‘em around is all. Dunno why. Used to it, probably. Always had something lying about.” Junkrat peers down at the roll of schematics, and he runs the pad of his thumb back and forth along the surface, as if pensive. “Things got real bad for a while, right. Didn’t have no choice but to have all sorts, including the snappy ones. ‘Specially the snappy ones. Always reliable. Packing ‘em up just feels weird. Like here we go, right, on the move, gotta scrap the bush telly and scrounge up all your gear.” Junkrat shrugs. “Traps just feels like home, y’know? Well. Close to home as you can get.”

“I understand the sentiment, I suppose. I feel similarly about the gauntlet Vishkar granted me.” Absently, she traces the back of her left palm. “It feels somehow wrong to be without it.”

“That’s different,” says Junkrat.

“And exactly how is it different?”

He gives the construct upon her left arm a nod. “Well, that’s your job right there, innit? S’what gets you everything. You make all them things with it. Pop ‘em in outta nowhere. Packs a bit more punch than some snappy little traps, I’d say.”

Satya peers down at the glinting white metal as she considers his words. “Perhaps it is different.”

“I reckon so. Don’t make no real difference to me if all the traps’s gone. Just a feeling, right. Can live with a feeling. Ignore ‘em after a while. Feelings’ll piss off if it’s been long enough.” After grappling a hold of his notebook and pencil and tossing them amidst the bundle of blankets, Junkrat hoists himself upward with a grunt and hops back onto his bed. It squeaks in protest beneath his wiry weight. He dangles his good leg off the edge as he flicks his wrist, shaking the schematics at her in a _come hither_ manner. “That thing, though. That thing’s something else. Reckon it’s a game changer.”

Closing her left hand into a fist, Satya stares at him with ironlike severity. “I hope you aren’t getting any ideas.”

“Ideas?” Junkrat’s brow furrows, glancing at her arm. “What, about that?”

“Yes,” she says, “about this. And if you are getting any ideas, I highly suggest you disregard them. I have had enough of you stealing, misplacing, and scattering my belongings. I will not hesitate to retrieve them in a more forceful manner if necessary should the need arise.” With a short breath, she straightens her posture and approaches the edge of the bed, just close enough to be within reach and yet far enough so that she cannot feel the addicting heat from his body or the soft smell of his skin. Biting at the inside of her mouth, she extends her right hand, palm outstretched. “Now, if you would, please return what is mine so I can get back to work.”

Junkrat appraises her with what appears to be nonplus. His metal fingers make gentle scratching motions across the thick of his thigh, the flat of his left foot against the floor and coaxing the rest of his leg into keeping a constant, anxious tic. The yellowed light from the desk lamp drenches him in a pale gold and casts soft shadows in the hollow by his collarbone and along his jaws. From the arch of his hunched sit and her tight stature, it becomes more apparent that there are indeed threads of growth from the patched spots toward the back of his scalp.

Mercy’s commentary bleeds to the forefront of her thoughts, primarily concerning his state of physical fitness, and there is an inward part of her that succumbs to a shiver. She had invited herself into his personal space, his room, barging in to find him mostly naked—not that she has not seen him mostly naked, or _completely_ naked; gods, what is _wrong_ with her—and here she is, demanding the items he’d somehow shown enough care to stow for her in the aftermath of The Incident.

It was a mistake to come here, she thinks.

“Well, all that really weren’t what I was meaning,” says Junkrat. A canine worries at his lower lip. Her closer proximity grants a better view of his how tired he seems; the smudges beneath his eyes seem to have been wrought with his thumb tipped in black and arced in weary crescents. “Just, y’know, reckon that thing’s important. Never seen you without it. And I ain’t interested in nabbing it, if that’s what you’re on about. I got it good here. Plenty good. Good money, good jobs, good little hideout. Not gonna jeopardize this by nicking some flashy techno kit. Not my kinda haul, anyhow.” He gazes up at her, a smile edging at the very corner of his mouth, and he holds out the schematics for her to take. “‘Sides, I’d rather avoid a—a what’d you call it?— _forceful_ manner. Well, ‘less that’s your kinda thing.”

Satya snatches them from his grasp. “I will have you know that was not meant in an indecent way.”

“Sure. I believe you.” His amused tone belies the claim.

“It truly wasn’t,” she insists.

“I know, I know. Delicate sensibilities and all, right. I get it.” Junkrat grins, seeming pleased with himself. It’s insufferable. “No worries.”

“Contrary to previous incidents, I am not completely deaf to sarcasm. I know when I am being mocked.”

“Weren’t doing nothing of the sort.”

“I find that difficult to believe.”

“Oi, not my fault if you don’t take me honest word for it.” He traces his index finger over his heart. “Nothing but truth here, love.”

“You’re—you’re _incorrigible_ ,” says Satya.

By the time she realizes her error, it is already too late.

Junkrat stares up at her, the self-satisfied smile faded from his face. His leg has paused in its movements, his metal hand stilled upon his thigh. A fierceness lurks in the vivid amber of his eyes, hot and sharp and piercing, and it shoves down between her bones and anchors her to where she stands. The air becomes laden with something thick and suffocating, curling close about the column of her neck, and Satya’s stomach starts to curdle.

Slowly, Junkrat brings callused fingers to his right cheek, lingering over the phantom of her kiss. His adam’s apple bobs and his throat looks to be caught with something particularly constricting because when he opens his mouth, there is nothing that comes forth. It’s just a faint pool of air, hot debris from the bellows of his lungs, and he clenches his jaws in a hard swallow. The way he looks at her summons the warm sea breeze, the encroaching sunset, the cream of the ocean as it swells against the beach below the Rock; it summons him at her back, arms clenched around her waist, his breath upon her neck; it summons his pulse beneath her ear as she rockets skyward in his arms; it summons the familiar twist down beside her heart and harpoons a twinge between the chambers.

No.

No.

 _No_.

Satya cannot allow herself to make the same mistake over and over again. She has already defied herself more times than she would care to admit, and here she is once again, close and alone with him in a position where she has found herself compromised. And not only that, it is two days after The Incident, an event that had made her swear that she would adhere to her newly established limitations and boundaries—only to disregard them again, heedless, drawn into casual conversation and entertained by suntouched shoulders and wiry muscle and the lines of lean hips.

She cannot correct Junkrat. That is clear enough. But she can remove herself from him. She can. She _has_ to. She has no _choice_. The remnants of this _thing_ must be salvaged and forged into something useful, something away from the mutated chimera of what it has already become, something like what she has with Reinhardt or Mercy or Tracer or anyone, _anyone_ else—

“Satya.” Junkrat’s hand lowers from his cheek, his fingers half curled.

The way he says her name is odd and it wedges a halt in her thoughts. It’s his accent, she thinks. There should be a lighter, more fluid sound at the center, just as her mother had once done, but the accent makes it harsh and presses a hard emphasis on the T. A part of her desires to correct him, to let him know that he should let his tongue relax and allow it to come between his teeth when he says it, but the words stay hooked back in the bottom of her throat.

“Junkrat.”

It comes out as a threadbare thing, thin and weak and boneless, and she realizes that she should not have told him her name. This has become too personal, too close, too strange, and it isn’t something she can compartmentalize; it will not fit in its own space, it won’t; it’s bleeding over into all of the other aspects of her life, seeping and welling and consuming, and she can think of no way to stop it.

“Thank you for taking care of my things,” she says, ushered in before he can mention anything he shouldn’t. “I realize I was harsh when I arrived, but I promise you it is sincerely appreciated. I should not have been so careless the other day.”

 _Careless_. This has never been like her. The word leaves so much unsaid, rife with tension stuffed between the lines, and the shrapnel he’s left through her veins inches forever closer with each throb of her heart.

“S’my pleasure,” says Junkrat. The timbre of his voice has a rich lowness to it that clinches down her vertebrae in a spiraling shiver. “Just—y’know, teamwork and all that. You got my back, I got yours. S’how it’s been, right. Mates and all.”

“Of course.” A shard of her is stricken. It shouldn’t be. It _shouldn’t_.

The blueprints securely in hand, she pivots on her foot and starts to make her way out of Junkrat’s room. She weaves through the traps, taking care to give them a wide berth, and when she reaches the threshold, a clamping wave of relief kneads at her shoulders.

“Symmetra?”

Her moniker pins a sharpness in her lungs. She glances over her shoulder, caging a breath within to prevent the pain from spreading. “Yes?”

Junkrat stares at her from his bed, his leg once again resumed in a rhythmic tap. “Lemme know when I should pop by the doc’s place for a quick measure,” he says. His thumb flicks the shell of his left ear. “Y’know. For fitting.”

“It will be tomorrow, I assume. I need to make up for lost time.” The white metal of her hand tightens into a fist, crushing against the watery crystal at her palm. “But I will let you know.”

He leans over and grabs a hold of his notebook and snapped pencil from the swath of bunched blankets shoved at the foot of his bed. The nub between his thumb and forefinger, he waves it at her in farewell. “Cheers. See you around, then. Maybe in the grub hall.”

“Perhaps. We will have to see how much of this I can complete.” She lets herself breathe, and it is a cold ache in the hollow of her chest. “You know, Mercy asked me to tell you to sleep. I believe she prescribed a nap.”

Junkrat has already placed the pillow in his lap and opened up his notebook, presumably to where he’d left off. He does not bother to look up at her; his concentration is upon the page, his left hand sketching something along its weathered surface. “I might have a short rest here in a while,” he says. “If the rest of me finally shuts up, that is.”

You don’t look well, she doesn’t say.

I’d like you to get better, she doesn’t say.

“At least give it a try,” she says instead.

Junkrat pauses his scribbling. He brings the back of his good hand to where she’d kissed his cheek, rubbing with the hills of his knuckles, and he glances up at her with something she cannot understand. “Reckon I’ll give it a go after I get this squared away. Right at the end here. Least I think so. Couple more things, then should be ready to go. I’ll have a lie down then.”

“Good.” Satya nods in approval. “Have a pleasant afternoon, Junkrat.” And then, after a moment of weakness, “Sleep well.”

The retreat from the junkers’ niche is as equally liberating as it is suffocating. The weight in her pocket and the sheaf in her grasp mark what she had come here to do, as they signify her success, her triumph; she can work again and focus herself into producing something useful for the pending mission. In spite of that, they also are palpable reminders that The Incident happened. They are smothered memories given flesh; they are somehow worse than the pieces of him that have managed to climb underneath her skin and flourish in her mind’s eye.

Satya’s grip crinkles the schematics in the center of the roll as she traverses the outpost halls. She knows she will only smooth them out again later, but she cannot stop herself. The need for contact brims hotly beneath her skin, and she wants nothing more than to drain the knotted tension coiled up by her belly. It is uncomfortable, twisting, and she wishes a knife could carve it out, but the one she’d created flashes behind her eyes at the back of Junkrat’s belt and she bites at her mouth with viciousness.

She knows that kissing his cheek two days ago could not have been a worse decision. There is no doubt. The Incident was a mistake, and one she does not intend to repeat.

And yet all she can think about is pulling him down by the straps of his harness and kissing him until shocked and breathless.


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Answer me (did we take this too far?)_   
>  _You've given all I could need (did we take this too far?)_   
>  _Oh, but your kiss won't leave me be (did we take this too far?)_   
>  _'cause your teeth just won't stop_   
>  _[chewing out my heart](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cLFtM4GIRA4) _

Junkrat earns his third point over the sprawling cityscape of Lijiang’s towering rooftops.

With a slimmer version of her communicator’s prototype integrated into the apparatus of her visor just over her right ear, Satya sits with patience in her harnessed seat as the ORCA maneuvers out of Lijiang’s skyways and toward an acceptable landing zone. The ship’s movement has dipped into a low arc, making for one of the open docks down below, and the thrum of the engines has shifted with its descent. The clear glass of the dropship’s door is an open portal to a seemingly endless horizon of squared buildings and spiked skyscrapers, backed by the pale blue and cirrus blotted expanse of a fresh summer morning. Further off in the distance is the grand structure of Lijiang Tower, where the renowned Lucheng Interstellar has made its residence—a small tidbit Winston had been more than enthusiastic to talk about yesterday during their pre-deployment briefing.

Six other teammates had been chosen for this particular investigation. Tracer, who serves as both the pilot and the lead scout; Ana, equipped with a biotic rifle for healing and various elixirs and darts; Mei, with her weather technology and knowledge of the surrounding area; Morrison, who would be assuming leadership and providing guidance; Junkrat, with his powerhouse explosives in case of an encounter; and Roadhog to serve as his boss’s bodyguard, as there was no one who had the courage to tell him no.

With Tracer and Morrison conversing in the cockpit, Satya is left with Ana, Mei, Roadhog, and Junkrat in the main cabin. Roadhog takes up nearly two seats in the parallel strip directly across the cabin, the majority of his gear stashed in a set of cases Morrison had insisted upon for transportation. Junkrat is strapped in by his side at the nearest available seat, good leg bobbing in place as he pores over pages in his shabby notebook. Ana takes the seat beside him at his right, one leg crossed and hands folded in her lap. Although Satya cannot hear everything over the hum of the ship, she seems to be engaging him in friendly conversation, and every so often, she will see Junkrat shrug or look up from his work to grin and say something in reply.

It shouldn’t, but it stirs a distinct, panging ache toward the bottom of her throat. Ever since The Incident (and subsequently after she had managed to retrieve her blueprints), she had made a point to avoid Junkrat at all costs. It wasn’t difficult by any means, as she had already made note of his various habitual behaviors and routines, and she had used such observations to her advantage when planning time in the workshop or attending meals. There had been one instance in particular where she had grossly misjudged the timeframe that had been available for her use—and that had resulted in her entering the washroom while he was carefully whipping away a thin layer of sparse, pale blond scruff from his chin with an old razorblade. Satya had suffered a reluctant hello and three minutes of sullen silence as she brushed her teeth beside him, half distracted by his show of personal hygiene and the rest distracted by his apparent lack of trousers.

But it is for the best, she tells herself. It is. It has to be. Distance will lessen whatever madness has claimed her, and perhaps it will allow the attraction to subside into something less domineering in nature. The less time she spends talking with him and interacting with him, the better off she will be, and the sooner she can return to worrying only about her projects and how she can better assist the rest of the team. She has no room for vulnerabilities in her life, she never has, and such a blatant one needs to be squelched before it can morph itself into a real problem.

And yet, she still thinks of The Incident. It was four days ago, four excruciatingly long days, and it refuses to stay out of her mind for too long. There will be periods of time where she is absorbed in her work or immersed in listening to Winston and Morrison outline information on their intended destination, and then everything will be interrupted with something that reminds her of Junkrat. It’s always something ridiculous, something stupid, something like the way someone says a particular word or the way she’s drawn an edge of one of her designs, and then the fact that she had kissed Junkrat’s cheek surges up like lightning and her mind becomes easy prey to the way he’d looked at her after he’d eaten the piece of cake she’d offered.

In truth, Satya is quite glad he has followed suit and has been scarce over the past few days. If he had looked at her like that again, she is not so certain she could have stopped herself from repeating The Incident. It’s a terrible thought, it truly is, but she has to be honest with herself—and if she is being honest, too much of her indulges in the idea—and so she finds that she is left with no choice but to avoid him completely. A lingering fragment considers Zenyatta’s prior words of acceptance and balance, but it is snuffed out before the ideal can take root. Accepting this will not help in any way, she is certain; accepting and embracing can only hope to make things worse, and she will not fall victim to the unwitting charms of a lanky madman with wildfire hair and patched shorts.

“Symmetra?”

Satya straightens herself and banishes the thoughts as best she can. “Yes?”

“Are you all right?” Mei sits in the seat to Satya’s right, bundled up in the thick of her parka with her weather modification drone resting in her lap. “You seem troubled.”

I am, she thinks, _deeply_ , but she draws a steady breath and says, “I am only thinking of what waits for us below. During our briefing, Winston and Morrison did not seem to know what to expect upon our arrival. Whatever it is, I can only hope we are prepared for it. I don’t know what sort of operations Talon would be conducting in such a large city. It is concerning.”

“I agree with you. It does seem very strange they would come here. If they are searching for another Doomfist gauntlet, it makes no sense to come Lijiang. It is a big city, of course, but I don’t think something like that could be hidden here. Surely it would have made the news if something had happened. Nosy reporters always find a way.” She glances out the dropship door, squinting behind the lenses of her glasses, and she gives the communicator at her left ear a gentle tap, as if to test its grip. “I am very worried, too. Something doesn’t seem right. If they meant to investigate here, it must be for something else.”

Satya employs a stronger hold on the armrests when Tracer coaxes the ship into a sharper angle. “I am starting to follow a similar line of thinking. Winston had mentioned the other Doomfist gauntlet being kept in Numbani. That one Talon had attempted to steal. There is Doomfist himself who possesses another gauntlet, but no one seems to know his exact whereabouts. If there were to be yet another gauntlet in the world, I find it unlikely that it would be here.”

“Maybe we misinterpreted what Jesse brought back,” says Mei. Her gloved fingers smooth over the drone’s domelike top, and it chirps a soft, happy reply. “Maybe these coordinates are for other things altogether. What if they are for other… you know, _hits_? Like that omnic that was murdered in London? What if they mean to eliminate other people in the same way?”

“That would not be out of the question. I dare say it would be a possibility. From what Winston has said, they have been the culprit of many unscrupulous events in the past, assassination and disruption of the peace being only two of what I assume to be a long list of crimes.” Satya folds her hands over one another in thought, her nails tracing delicate lines over the smooth metal of her gauntlet. “But if they mean to assassinate another person, that begs the question: what powerful figure could reside in Lijiang that might require a hit?”

“There are many, many influential people in this city,” says Mei. “The most notable is the president of Lucheng Interstellar, Li-Min Zhang. There are also other large corporations here with some clout, although it is not quite as much. If we are going to connect this to the omnic’s assassination, none of them are invested in omnic relations at all. Well, at least not that I know of. I know Xi’an is not very fond of omnics, but I am not so sure about Lijiang. Cultures between cities vary. There may be sympathizers here.”

“Or perhaps they came here for something else altogether,” says Satya. “If they are searching for Doomfist, they might also be in the market for other technologies. Who is to say they would not be interested in artifacts beyond Doomfist?”

Mei pats the drone, forehead crinkled. “I guess that wouldn’t be out of the question, either. They are a terrorist organization, after all. They would do anything necessary to get what they need. And if that included acquiring some other kind of technology, I wouldn’t put it past them. I’m sure they’ve done it before, too. We just never heard about it.”

“Ana mentioned that there was once a subdivision of Overwatch dedicated to tracking their movements,” says Satya. “Is that true?”

“Yes, it is, but it was dismantled while I was stationed at the watchpoint in Antarctica. I didn’t hear about what happened until I returned several months ago. The head of the program, Gérard Lacroix—at least I think that was his name—was murdered by his wife. Talon kidnapped her and turned her into something… else. I don’t know exactly what happened, to be honest. All of the information I received was either second or thirdhand. But she turned up again one day after she was taken, perfectly fine, and then Mister Lacroix was found dead a few weeks later.” She shivers under the layers of her parka. “Very gruesome.”

“They seem to have an entire repertoire of abilities,” remarks Satya. “Assassination, reconditioning, conspiracy, reconnaissance. I wonder what other sort of things they are capable of. Any other international presence would have been addressed by now, and yet their magnitude seems to grant them immunity.”

“The UN never really had the resources to deal with them, from what I remember,” says Mei. “Overwatch was initiated as a response to the Omnic Crisis by the UN’s hand. The initial taskforce was brought together so long ago, and once they were able to acquire more members like me, there was a bit of… branching out. Of course, I had been sent to the Antarctic then, so I don’t know everything. But there was my unit for the Eco watchpoints with fellow climatologists, a covert ops unit, and then Gérard who made it his personal mission to rein in Talon, and then there was a unit or two dedicated to facing the Shimada clan.” Pursing her lips, she glances down at the little drone in her lap. “I will always stand by my decision to join Overwatch, but I think the organization’s decisions were too big. There are some things that shouldn’t have been pursued.”

The scorching fires of Rio smoulder down beneath her skin. “Perhaps. I heard there was great controversy toward the end of its life.”

“Yes. There was. And it is still a shock.” She breathes a despondent sigh. “You know, I wasn’t even aware Overwatch had been disbanded when I came back. I thought everything was still the way it was. I spent years down there without even knowing it. Coming back to civilization with the world an entirely different place than what you remember is so strange. At first, I’d thought I was imagining it, but everything really happened the way I was told. It was a terrible end for an organization that had once accomplished such wonderful things.”

Satya frowns in puzzlement. “I’m sorry—years? And you were not aware of any of this?”

“That is just how events unfolded,” she says. “A horrible, horrible storm came through the area and destroyed the watchpoint. For all of the supplies we had, they didn’t last long. It was the idea of one of the other scientists to try the watchpoint’s cryogenics chamber when we had nothing left. It was all we could think to do. Sleep and hope for the best.” Mei bites at her lower lip. “No one else awoke.”

“That seems far more gruesome than what happened to Lacroix,” says Satya.

Mei catches her gaze, the warm brown of her eyes holding a touch of bewilderment. “I don’t understand.”

“It is one man’s death versus an entire team of leading scientists,” she says. “His wife may have been his killer, but somehow I find starving or freezing to death in an unknown environment with no hope of rescue less desirable.”

“I don’t think you can really compare them that way,” says Mei. “I mean, they are two separate data points, of course, but they differ too much. It’s like if you were to compare two separate anomalies that just so happened to have the same outcome—which I suppose would be death in this case. Even if they both result in death, their causes still differ: freezing to death or being killed by a loved one. They are tragedies, but you can’t compare things like that. I know people always try to find a way to measure something, no matter what it is, but… I don’t think death is something that should be measured.”

Satya shuts her eyes and rolls her fingers over the knuckles of her gauntlet. With her nerves already frayed from both The Incident and the impending mission, it is not a good time for Rio to resurface. Mei isn’t wrong, she knows; deaths should not be measured or compared in such a way, as there are factors involved in each that could not possibly hold empirical values. Regardless, a crumpled knot of guilt has welded itself beside her heart, and it aches. The heat of the flames wreathes around her and threatens to bite at her skin; all that crushes through her head are red licks of fire against the smoky midnight sky and glowing cinders that streak down the sides of a young girl’s deformed face.

It was for the greater good, she tells herself, but it sits wrongly atop her stomach.

“Is everybody ready?” Tracer’s voice sounds over the ORCA’s intercom, bright and boisterous. “Hope you’re good and buckled, ‘cause we’re coming in for a landing! Thirty seconds here, shouldn’t be too rough, but might want to keep a good grip on things just in case!”

The ship shifts once more, arcing down into a sharper turn. Mei tucks the drone close to her belly to prevent it from tumbling off, and Ana presses one hand to an armrest, as if expecting a rough landing. Roadhog keeps his thick arms folded, remaining stoic and still, and Junkrat has his notebook scooped up in one arm with his pencil snagged between his teeth. Satya’s stomach drops with the sudden lurch, shoving her back into the sky with Junkrat at her back, but once Tracer evens out the ship’s angle and slows to a parallel hover before the ground, she swallows in relief and brings a palm over her thrumming heart.

Unloading and gathering equipment is a relatively painless process. Morrison had made sure to organize everything in appropriate carrying cases and containers to minimize on time spent in preparation, and Satya must admit that she appreciates his efforts. Ana shares her stash of elixirs and darts with a case containing Mei’s weather manipulation equipment and endothermic blaster, while Tracer has a separate small box with her pulse bombs and pair of pistols. Morrison has a large case for his rifle and small capsules he had called biotic emitters, stored with Satya’s own repaired photon projector and the white-blue structure of her visor. Roadhog’s scrap gun and shotgun coupled with a hook and chain lie in another bulky box, and Junkrat’s array of bombs and grenades reside in a final blastproof case that had been strapped to one of the back walls to prevent any unnecessary shifting during flight.

“The coordinates McCree procured lead about two kilometers east of here,” says Morrison, strapping his rifle over his back. “By my estimates, that will put us very close to Lijiang Tower. We will continue on foot from here. I’d like to get a look ahead to see what we’re dealing with before all of us going in. Lena, I’m leaving that up to you.”

“Roger that.” Tracer spins her pistols about her index fingers before holstering them at her hips. Her orange goggles have been pushed up to her forehead, mussing the fringe of her mousy hair. “I’ll pop on ahead and see what I can find. Shouldn’t be too long. How about I give you a ring when I get to the Tower?”

“Hang on. Not just yet. You’re not going alone.” Morrison turns his gaze on Satya as he fastens his visor across his mouth and over his eyes. “Symmetra, I heard from Winston that your abilities allow you to make teleporters. Is that right?”

“It is, yes,” she replies. “I have taken the liberty to construct a new model that will allow farther distances between the entrance point and exit point. I have not quite perfected the model, but I can create one here on the ship and one near to the Tower. That will allow us seamless travel between both points.”

“Good. That sounds exactly like what we need. I want the both of you to scout the area around the Tower and report what you find. When it’s time, try to set the teleporter in a secure location, preferably higher ground. I don’t know what we will run into, but having an altitude advantage over the terrain might give us an edge against whatever might be waiting.”

“You got it,” says Tracer.

“Understood,” says Satya.

Morrison glances over his shoulder. “Junkrat!”

Her stomach drops at the sound of his name.

Junkrat, two grenades in his left hand, sits on his haunches toward the back of the ship, stooped over the blastproof case. It seems as though he is in the middle of hitching the last few explosives to his harness, as there are an uneven amount of the grinning cylindrical capsules divided between both sides. Satya knows it shouldn’t, but the urge to pluck one off to create a balance comes to mind. When she is reminded of correcting the skewed position of his scraggly shirt several days ago, she promptly shoves the thought aside.

Craning his neck to get a better look, Junkrat halts his task, one last grenade pressed among his fingers, and he regards Morrison with piqued interest. “Yeah, mate? What d’you need?”

“Go with them,” he says, gesturing a gloved thumb toward Satya. “Help establish a perimeter with Symmetra and keep the teleporter safe. The three of you should be able to handle whatever comes your way. I expect to hear when you’ve found a good place. Check in every once in a while to let us know you’re still with us.”

Morrison continues into a set of additional instructions, but Satya doesn’t hear them. Instead, she becomes too focused on Junkrat’s presence. She stares at Morrison and his stark white hair and the dark mask over his mouth and the red-orange lenses across his eyes, and yet nothing registers; her hyperawareness illustrates Junkrat at the edge of her peripheral, hefting his heavy RIP-tire over his back and onto the hitched contraption strapped along the back of his harness. Its chain jingles below Morrison’s husky drone. Once accustomed to the new weight, he rolls his neck and grabs a hold of his grenade launcher before heading over. His steps fall into the usual _scuff-click_ of his crooked gait, and as he draws close to her left, she catches the effect the tire bomb has on him: his posture is no better than usual, but there is thick muscle roping between his shoulders and through his chest, keeping both himself and his creation aloft.

“And keep your heads down. It’s a crowded city, the local time is approximately 0500 hours. There won’t be many, but there will still be civilians around. Keep your eyes peeled and be aware of your surroundings. The last thing we need is an ambush. The quieter this is, the better.”

“Righto. Quiet it is.” Junkrat gives an affirmative nod as he tucks a thumb under his harness and snaps it tight. “No worries, mate. We’ll be plenty quiet. Pop down a click or two, have us a look about, wrangle up a teleporter. Won’t be no problem.” He glances to Satya, and she half expects him to nudge her with his elbow, but he doesn’t. “Ain’t that right?”

“It should be a very smooth process, yes,” she agrees. The lump that has coagulated at the bottom of her throat is harder to swallow than she had anticipated, and it struggles on its way down. “Unless we happen to encounter enemy agents, I foresee no problems. Bringing in another teleporter wouldn’t be difficult. Finding a decent space for it might be, however.”

“Leave that to me, love.” Tracer pats the shining blue accelerator harnessed over the sleek material of her orange jumpsuit. “I’ll find us a spot; don’t you worry! I can cover a good bit of ground with this, so shouldn’t be too hard. High ground here means roofs, or maybe some of the lower buildings, and I might be able to pop up over them to have a proper look.” Grinning, she lowers her goggles down over her freckled face and offers a jovial laugh. “Besides, riding lifts up twelve to twenty floors isn’t exactly what I’d call fun.”

“Should the need arise, I can create bridges as well,” says Satya. Turning to Tracer, she spins her wrist and clenches her hand before pressing it to her arm. Hexagonal weaves of hard-light meld over top, enveloping her jumpsuit and sluicing down the rest of her body in a thin, glimmering shield. “If we find a suitable scouting spot that is inaccessible, I can provide the path to get there. Well, within means, of course.”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” says Tracer. “Your stuff is awful useful, you know. Don’t know how we got along without you before. Teleporters and spiffy shields? This ought to be standard!”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” says Morrison.

Tracer’s eyebrows pinch. “Why not?”

“Because I am on a year of leave from my employer that was coordinated by Winston, Vishkar, and myself.” Satya feels a tensing in her neck as she faces Junkrat. There is a slight tremble in her hands as she readies his photon shield, ever so slight, and she damns herself for being coerced into this situation. “Winston was very generous with the terms, Vishkar complied, and so I am here. But it is a temporary affair, and because it is temporary, I will return to Vishkar after the year has finished. While I would like to offer our technology as a parting gift, not only is it against company policy, it would be highly frowned upon. So, unfortunately, all of this will be leaving with me.”

She swears she sees Junkrat shiver under her touch. The shield melds over his hard abdomen and spreads up his chest, over his shoulders, across his arms, stretching the length of his back, and his neck seems to twitch under its advancement. The metal hand that holds his grenade launcher tenses around its grip and his teeth graze at his lower lip. It’s too familiar, too close, and Satya steps back before she can catch his gaze because she does not want to see his eyes.

“Well, that’s not for a while, right? Still got you for the time being.” Tracer gives a light shrug. “Maybe you might moonlight for us once in a while after you’ve gone back. I know I’d like it if you did.”

I won’t, she thinks, but she smiles and says, “Perhaps,” instead.

After a final set of directions from Morrison and after the first teleport waypoint has been conjured aboard the ORCA, Tracer, Junkrat, and Satya disembark down the dropship’s ramped door. The early morning air is crisp and cool, and a touch of humidity lingers through the breeze’s inquisitive fingers. The area in which they had landed is relatively quiet and open; it is a place where other ships of similar sizes have come down to dock, structured with neon lighting to direct night traffic and an ample chrome landing space separated by arcing pathways for those on foot.

As they leave the docking area, Satya finds the buildings crowding the sky are quite varying in height. They range from only a couple of stories to large, spiking skyscrapers out toward the Tower. Although Lijiang looks nothing like Utopaea, she finds the architecture to be aesthetically pleasing. Some buildings are squared, others are sloped and rounded, a few are shaped in delicate twists, and even more are adorned with strips of neon lining their sides to alert pilots of their presence. Such lights have faded to a muted glow beneath the face of the yellowed sunrise, giving the city a pale, smoky appearance with the coming dawn.

Thanks to the early morning hours, the streets are not quite so crowded. There is a small amount of foot traffic lining the sidewalks, clusters of workers heading home from their night shifts and others coming in to fill their spots. The primary roads themselves are home to new, sleek cars with hovering bodies—a drastic change from the smaller town of Gibraltar where there seem to be nothing but the old, wheeled models from two or more decades ago. A good thing for Junkrat, she supposes, eyeing the giant tire bomb strapped to his back. She’s sure he would have never been able to craft so many had Gibraltar had taken to such technologically advanced models.

With Tracer taking the lead and Junkrat plodding along just ahead, Satya takes the opportunity to center herself. She has been on edge for the past several days, ever since the morning of The Incident, and she has not had a chance to truly decompress since that evening. The scrap run had made her far too flustered, too aware of how Junkrat manages to affect her in a casual setting, and The Incident had only served as an additional stressor. The recovery of her blueprints had provided reprieve, of course, as they had given her something in which to channel her efforts, but it did not change the fact that The Incident refused to leave her be.

Drawing in a weary breath, she smooths out the wrinkles in her blouse and concentrates on the road ahead. Tracer refrains from blinking forward unless there are little to no passing witnesses, and then she will zip a good block or two beyond Junkrat to perform a quick scan of the area and ensure there are no agents lying in wait. Once a few seconds have passed, Tracer always rewinds and lands right back where she’d started, usually several paces behind Junkrat. Any sparse passersby regard Satya and her two eccentric companions with awe and drowsy wonderment. Some murmur to one another in hushed Chinese, perhaps commenting on such strange appearances or on the presence of Tracer herself. Satya does not know enough Mandarin or any of the other varying dialects to tell either way.

Ahead in the distance, the grand structure of Lijiang Tower draws nearer. Winston had made a point to go over some of the Tower’s surrounding areas before deployment, primarily the ample markets and gardens clustered around toward its base. She assumes that the chosen Talen coordinates point to one particular subsection there, although she can’t be sure where until they are at a better distance with a good vantage point. The blue-tinted HUD on her visor shows the distance between her current position and the programmed coordinates: approximately one point five-three kilometers. She suspects they will have to branch off from their current course at about point three, and then they will have to find a suitable location to establish a teleporter.

Satya squints up at the Tower through her visor, and the pale light cast from the waking sun glints off of its glossy windows and reflects onto the city below. From where she stands upon the streets, its spire seems impossibly high, spearing up into the lightening expanse of sky overhead. It occurs to her that its sheer height could rival José’s creations in Utopaea—how high had his been? Six hundred meters at the very least, she’s sure—and she absently wonders where his travels have taken him. The Tower does not mirror his style in any way, as he has always had a propensity for flair, but it jabs a twisting twinge of homesickness right beside her heart. Working down a swallow, Satya ropes the feeling away and buries it down where she hopes it won’t resurface.

The Incident must have made her more susceptible somehow, she thinks. There has always been a degree of homesickness while traveling, even under Vishkar’s banner, but once she had settled in Gibraltar and established a set of new routines, it had receded after a short while. Since The Incident, she has felt more and more unsettled, lost and out of control of herself, and she hates it. The academy both taught her to mask herself and to better control her emotions in anticipation of hardship during negotiations and other interactions with future clients, but it had never prepared her for something like this.

“Place reminds me of Sydney,” says Junkrat.

Satya nearly yelps in surprise. A part of her locks up from the intrusion—when on earth had he slowed down beside her?—and she tries to brush it off with little success. Aside from the few words he exchanged with her earlier, Junkrat has not spoken to her in a personal setting since she had retrieved her blueprints. She supposes she should be grateful, but it leaves her in an awkward position, especially with Tracer so far ahead.

“I do not understand how.” Her voice is far less even than she would like. A steady breath draws in through her lungs and pours into her chest in hopes of filling in the missing spaces her vocal cords refuse to fill. “We are nowhere near the ocean. Isn’t one of Sydney’s primary features the opera house and its extensive harbor?”

“Yeah, sure. I guess. Never cared much for either of those. Being honest. The beach was way better.”  Junkrat cranes his neck and surveys the skyscape above. “Reckon it’s just the buildings. Sydney’s got some big ones. Real tall. Probably not as tall as these, right, but they’re set up pretty good. Did some climbing there. Roof hopping and all.”

She turns to her right and eyes him with bewilderment. “You mean to say you went roof hopping around Sydney?”

“Sure did. Me and Roadie both. Well, did a bit of gliding, too. Had some stuff set up between the buildings.” He gestures to her left arm with a metal thumb. “No flashy bridges like you got. Coulda used ‘em. Things was more complicated then. Eh, more or less. Told you about that suit that set us up. Was all just part of squaring it off.”

“Something tells me that involves events I would rather not know about,” she says, redirecting her gaze to the sidewalk. “It is bad enough you steal car parts and other items. I hate to think of what else you might do in your spare time.”

“Oi, least I’m considerate about it, right,” says Junkrat. “Not like I’m snagging one of them smooth hovering techno getups or anything. Not like I could use any of them parts, anyway. Got too much all mashed together. Won’t do nothing without bot circuitry or something. Not about touching any of that.”

“You have such strange standards.” Satya watches as Tracer blinks ahead in a snap of blue and disappears around the corner of a building. She wishes she would come back and remain with her so she wouldn’t have to deal with Junkrat’s idle chatter. “Wouldn’t one of those ‘hovering techno getups’ give you a better bomb?”

“Pff, no. You poking fun at me? That’s what you’re doing, innit?” Junkrat laughs at his own expense, cackling with a wavering lilt. “Oh, no, no. Definitely won’t get me a better bomb. My RIP-tire’s the best it is already. Just the right amount of firepower. Makes the perfect blast. Nice loud bang, proper radius, good reach. Engines’re a bit wonky and could use a bit of juice, but that’s just local stock. Now, if I had me some of them big ones back near Junkertown—ooh, you better believe that’s gonna be a good bang.” He heaves a satisfied sigh and knocks a fist twice over his heart. “Hah. Gets me all fluttery just thinking ‘bout it.”

“Perhaps you should think of our mission instead,” says Satya. The idea of Junkrat being _fluttery_ is something she does not want to dwell on. “We must be alert in case there are enemy agents in the immediate area. I doubt they would care too much if you were too ‘fluttery’ to return fire.”

“Oh, don’t you worry, love. That won’t be no problem. I’m never too fluttery to return fire.” Junkrat drums his fingers over the length of his grenade launcher and offers a gold-laced smile. “Gives the ol’ ticker a good kickstart, I’d say.”

“I certainly hope so,” she remarks, and she increases her pace with purpose.

It isn’t long before Satya out-strides him. It takes little effort with his particular gait and the weight of the RIP-tire centered over his back. While it occurs to her that moving ahead might be construed as rude, she steels herself and continues walking forward. Her heart is already victim to an erratic pulse and her breaths are shallower than before; she knows exactly what cause she can attribute them to, and true to the boundaries she’s taken one last time to establish, she is going to distance herself from Junkrat, no matter the cost.

Junkrat does not protest. He follows along without further conversation, seeming resigned to her decision, and for a moment, she feels a short wave of relief settle about her shoulders. When she sees Tracer wink her way back into existence further up the street, it then occurs to her that Junkrat is _behind_ her, just as he had been at the hangar when she had caught sight of him staring at her, and her nails dig into her palm with startling haste. Satya allows her strides to shorten, effectively putting her pace at three quarters of his, and she has never felt so grateful to be wearing slacks in the morning’s increasing summer heat.

“Oi! You two!” Tracer blips backward another two hops and materializes a few steps in front of Satya. She lands on one foot, and after a moment to adjust to the lack of momentum, she brushes a lock of hair from her eyes and hooks her hands on her hips. “Got a bit of news. Looks like it’s time we start getting a bit more careful. If my estimation’s right, we’re about a kilometer away—” She glances up through her orange goggles at the bulk of Lijiang Tower, affording it a nod, “—and I just caught sight of our first Talon mate. Just the one, right up ahead here, over ‘round the corner. He’s by some closed shops or something, I think. Can’t read the writing. He’s not in a full getup, either, like maybe he stepped out for a bite. Don’t know how many there are lurking about, but my guess is we’d best keep low and move to some of the side streets. Too much room out here.”

“I agree,” says Satya. “Perhaps we should look into finding a secured space to bring in the others far sooner. If there is one here, there are bound to be more. If we happen to encounter the rest of them on the way to the Tower, it might prove disastrous as we do not know their numbers.”

“If you’re so worried ‘bout numbers, why don’t we take out that one all by his lonesome? Can’t be good just letting him sit around. One less’d report to them lot if he’s outta the way.” Junkrat primes his launcher with a thumb and forefinger and glances ahead to where Tracer had retreated with a smoulder in his eyes. “Or maybe there’ll be a couple more poking about. Wouldn’t hurt for a look.”

“Except Morrison told us to keep quiet,” says Satya, ushering him to lower his weapon. “Killing him would only serve to alert them of our presence that much sooner. What if they are expecting him to return while we are in the process of getting the rest of our team here? Then they have reason to suspect an enemy presence, and we’ve already lost the advantage.”

Junkrat crinkles his nose in disappointment. “Fine, fine. Have it your way. Promise it’d be quiet, though.”

“I hardly think that’s possible,” she says, regarding him with folded arms and a withering stare. “Have you looked at your weapons of choice lately?”

“Don’t mean it can’t be quiet. I got a couple bits I been working on that won’t make such a blast. Small little things.”

“And do you have any of them on your person?”

As if he had trouble recalling exactly what he had brought, Junkrat pats at one of the pouches at his left hip. “Nah, don’t think so. Still a couple things need fixing before I take ‘em for a blast run.”

“Then I doubt silencing that agent would be particularly quiet using any methods of yours.”

Junkrat frowns at her. Taking a half step forward, he closes the thin gap between them and cocks his head in what looks to be a show of challenge. The gradual light of the sun flushes pallid gold through the stark ends of his hair, and his jaws are shaped with palpable wedges of sharp shadow over the glistening cityscape. Her heart begins to stir behind her breastbone; he has come too close, far too close, close enough for her to see the rise of his ribs and the mischievous smiles etched into the grenades hitched to his harness.

“What?” Maintaining her rigid stare is difficult, but she focuses on the freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose and avoids the fierceness of his eyes.

“Don’t gotta be so snippy, y’know,” he says.

That was not what she had expected. “I beg your pardon? Snippy?”

“Yeah. Snippy. Being awful short. Not that you’re not short anyway.”

Satya cannot stop the scoffing noise from her throat. “And how exactly was I being snippy?”

“You been since the ship. You don’t think none of that over being quiet was snippy?”

“I was merely pointing out your behavioral patterns and your choice of weaponry. You cannot tell me throwing a grenade at an enemy agent would have resulted in a _quiet_ explosion. That is an impossibility.”

“Right, okay, I got more than just—”

“ _Oi!_ ”

Tracer comes between her and Junkrat in an azure burst. She poises one hand in front of Satya’s face, effectively barring her from interacting with him any further. Tracer glances up at her from behind the lenses of her goggles, her mouth firmed into a meaningful frown, and then she affords Junkrat the very same gaze.

“You finished?” she asks.

Satya think she can hear the sound of Junkrat’s shoe scuffing the ground. “Yeah. Reckon so.”

“Quite,” says Satya.

“Look, as much as I’d love to watch the two of you bicker on like a couple of primary school kids, we’ve got to get going. No time for butting heads, all right? That’s later. You can do that all you like after we get this done. ‘Til then, how about _everybody_ keeps quiet.” She pokes a gloved finger toward Junkrat. “And that goes double for you, mister.”

“Yeah, yeah, right, whatever,” says Junkrat, waving her away with his good hand. “I’ll put a sock in it.”

“Good. I hope that’s a promise, ‘cause you can bet I’ll keep you to it.” Tracer pivots on her heel and hops forward, gesturing after her with a sweep of her hand. “C’mon, let’s get a move on. No sitting about today. We got us some work to do!”

Junkrat follows, albeit begrudgingly post-scolding, and Satya tails along behind him with an increased pace to keep up with Tracer’s flighty steps. She finds that what constitutes as ‘back roads’ or ‘side streets’ in this particular area are roads simply less travelled. There are still civilians traversing the sidewalks and sleek cars zipping past over the warm pavement, but graduating from one of the heavy traffic roads to a narrow, two lane street offers more cover. Tracer makes a point to veer off to different paths in search of both potential enemies and a suitable place to establish a point of entry for the remainder of the team.

In spite of the situation at hand, Satya’s mind keeps rewinding back to The Incident. It is too stark, too vivid for her liking; the twilit grounds of the Gibraltar outpost are superimposed over Lijiang’s warm sidewalks, dusk devouring the sun out of the sky, Junkrat sitting beside her amongst the flowing grass with shock widening his eyes. While it is true that his lack of presence over the past few days has made the process of ignoring The Incident somewhat easier, it still finds hairline fractures in her the wall of her composure to clamber through, and this morning is proving to be especially prone.

It must be his proximity, she thinks. It must. It must be how close he’s been. It must be when he’d brushed her arm when boarding the ORCA yesterday, when he’d grinned while conversing with Ana, when he’d caught her stare once or twice beneath the dimmed lights of the cabin. There can be no other explanation. She’s certain of it. And the abrupt shift in his behavior following The Incident’s aftermath has not helped. Junkrat is blunt and forthcoming and reads to her as a person who would be loath to practice avoidance; it is clear he is trying to do the professional thing by engaging her in conversation. It is to make things less awkward, she assumes. If she were to ignore him during an important mission (or vice versa), it would start to complicate things to a ludicrous degree.

Perhaps she should not be so hasty to shut down his attempts to break the ice.

“Oi, looks like we got another one in for tea,” says Tracer. Her voice hums in Satya’s right ear, coming in through the communicator in a low, hushed whisper. “This one’s standing guard. Playing watchman in front of some building. Can’t tell what it is, though. I reckon it’s important. I’d keep back if I were you. Maybe backtrack a street? Bit caught up here; I’ll pop back as soon as I can.”

“Is everything all right over there?” Morrison’s voice comes through next, gravelly and terse.

“Affirmative,” says Satya, pressing at the integrated earpiece. “We have not been spotted yet. At least to our knowledge. We are approximately seven hundred meters from the Lijiang Tower.” Glancing upward, she peers past the surrounding buildings to appraise the spire in the light of the morning sun, the blue of her visor tinting its glossed surface. “This might be as close as we can get without raising suspicion.”

“Avoid engaging if you can,” says Morrison. “First priority is to scout a good vantage point.”

“Understood. It will be done.” Taking a step backward, she shifts her attention to Junkrat. “Come. Let’s find another route. I do not want to tempt them with an easy target.”

“What if that’s one of their little nests or something?” he asks, leaning out as if he could catch sight of the reported agent through the building walls. “Wouldn’t it be easier just to—”

Satya grabs a hold of his metal wrist and pulls. “Junkrat, now is not the time. The rest may decide that will be our course of action later. I have told you several times to stop being reckless. Rushing in with no knowledge of their situation and no help would be considered reckless. We are going to listen to Morrison and disengage.”

Stumbling after her, he glances over his shoulder. “Don’t normally say this, but I got a real bad feeling here.”

“So do I,” she says, “but that is not something we can afford to focus on right now.”

“Heads up, loves.” Tracer’s voice crackles over the channel, hurried and panting. “There’s just a _tiny_ bit more where that bloke came from.”

“Lena, what’s wrong? Are you in danger?” Concern laces Ana’s transmitted voice. “What happened?”

“I miiiight have been poking a just bit too close. I think they might’ve saw me ‘round that corner back there. Sorry, gotta run—accelerator’s on the blink again and it needs to recharge, so legwork it is!”

Satya presses an index finger to her earpiece. “Where should we meet you? Should we rendezvous farther back?”

“Don’t worry about that right now. Just focus on not being spotted and I’ll come find the both of you. Promise!”

“Are you going to be all right?” Ana takes pause to wait for a reply, but none comes forth. “Lena? Lena, are you there? Do you need assistance?”

“ _Lena_ ,” crackles Morrison’s voice, “Lena, do you copy?”

Further attempts by Ana and Morrison to contact Tracer result in an empty channel.

“Symmetra, Junkrat, get out of there and find a place you can set up one of those teleporters. We’re heading back to the ship now. About a kilometer out. Shouldn’t take too long. Keep in contact and ping us when it’s ready. And if you find Lena—” There is a low harshness in Morrison’s tone, “—let us know she’s safe.”

“Understood,” replies Satya. “We will keep you posted on our progress. Please inform us of when you reach the ship.”

“Roger that. Be careful out there.”

Satya allows a shaky breath and allows her hand to drop to her side. It is already damp; adrenaline curves her lifelines and pools in her palm. Working away the whorl in her throat with a thick swallow, she glances to Junkrat at her left, who is fiddling the communicator over his right ear with his good hand. His countenance is contoured with startling sobriety, and the drawn sternness of his brow suggests a degree of concern.

“Right.” He flexes metal fingers over the grip of his grenade launcher, jaws set and eyes focused. “Right, well, that don’t sound too good, now, does it?”

“No. No, it does not.” Satya’s grip tightens about Junkrat’s wrist. Its surface is jagged against the crystal in her left palm, and the ridged juncture between his hand and the rest of his arm is a strange angle for her fingers. “We need to move,” she says. “We need to move. Now.”

“Don’t gotta tell me twice.”

Backtracking is not as easy as Satya had anticipated. Returning toward the direction of the ship would likely prove to be a mistake, and she would rather not lead any potential pursuers closer to the ORCA, so she slips back through parallel avenues and avoids populated intersections. Junkrat’s presence with his slew of explosives does little to stave off passing attention from civilians, but she tries to pay it little mind and instead fixates on scanning the area for a suitable location.

Keeping a close eye on her surroundings, she watches the distance displayed on Vishkar’s HUD as it increments to one point three kilometers and then decrements back down to eight hundred meters. She uses Lijiang Tower as a focal point and maneuvers in a clockwise radius about the neighboring area. The more distance she covers, the more she realizes that finding a place with a good vantage point might not be in the cards. There are viable buildings nearby that might be tall enough for such a purpose, perhaps six stories, but with the waxing morning and the rising sun, they will all be inhabited soon enough.

On top of it, Tracer remains missing. Satya finds herself looking over her shoulder or across streets for signs of her, but she makes no appearances. And with the continued radio silence on her end, Satya finds it difficult to believe she had not suffered some sort of altercation with the Talon agents she had encountered.

She can only hope her accelerator had recharged in time.

“Oi. Oi, hold up. What about that thing?”

Satya pauses mid-step at the tap on her shoulder and turns to regard Junkrat with an arced eyebrow. “What about what thing?”

“That.” Junkrat stoops down beside her, face level with hers, and he points over to her right with a gloved hand. His finger gestures just beyond the wide, lustrous face of a particularly tall building. “Just over ‘cross the way there. Not the big one, right. The one next to it. You seeing what I’m seeing?”

Following the intended direction, she squints past the skyscraper and catches sight of a set of scaffolding adjacent to a nearby structure, far stouter than its neighbor. “A… a construction site? Is that what you are referring to?”

“Not just any construction site,” says Junkrat, “a whole _building_ construction site. That’s like to have less people about, right? Since you’re all about quiet. Good place. Nobody about, lots of room, nice roof. Real nice roof. Maybe something for your flashy bridges, yeah?” He straightens himself and leans to the side in attempt to get a better view. “Reckon that’s our best bet since the zippy pommy’s in a lick of trouble. Pop down some gizmos and bombs and a teleporter there, and _boom_ , we’re in business. Whole lot’s in for the party.”

Satya suppresses a smile beneath her fingers. “You are far more astute than you look.”

“No idea what you’re talking about.” Junkrat hooks a thumb on his harness and adorns a broad grin. “I look plenty astute. Them grenades ain’t just for show, y’know.”

“I have no doubt. All right, let’s make that our destination.” Satya presses the pad of her index finger to her earpiece. “Morrison, Junkrat and I have found a potential location. We are en route and should arrive shortly. I will inform you once we have a perimeter established and are ready to bring in the second waypoint.”

“Affirmative,” says Morrison. “We just reached the ship a few minutes ago. We’re ready to go when you are. Any sign of Lena?”

“No, unfortunately,” she replies. “Neither of us have seen her. We have not come across any enemy agents, either. I don’t know what that might mean for her.”

“Damn it. I hope she hasn’t gotten herself into something she can’t handle. All right, the both of you, just get yourselves over there and get set up. Whatever you need to do. We’ll be here waiting. Signal us if something happens or if Lena shows up.”

“We will,” she says, and the line closes with a soft _blip_.

Guiding her gaze over toward the glimpse of scaffolding, Satya tries to estimate how long it might take to make the trek. With foot and road traffic alike gradually increasing, she assumes twenty minutes at the very least. She supposes if she attempted to take an alternative route over the rooftops, it might yield a lesser time, but as Tracer had mentioned before, riding a lift all the way to the top of any chosen office building would be a strange sight, especially with Junkrat and his grenade launcher and RIP-tire shoved into the small, square confines of an elevator. Entertaining the thought alone gives way to an uncomfortable shiver.

“Right, so, we headed out?” asks Junkrat. “Dunno how long that place’ll be up for grabs. Reckon won’t be for too much longer. Maybe hardhats rolling in. They even keep the same time ‘round here?”

“I have no idea. I assume as much. I have been to China only a handful of times, and that was only under another architech’s wing as part of my training process. We never ventured further into the city as our host and potential business partner at the time was quite accommodating. That was in Beijing, though, which is in an entirely different province than where are now.” Satya gathers herself and starts off down the rest of the sidewalk, stepping past building fronts and dimmed neon signs in various assorted Chinese characters. She scans over them with a knit brow, and she regrets not suggesting Mei accompany the scouting group instead. “I am not familiar with the language here, either,” she adds, “which tends to complicate things.”

Junkrat keeps up with her despite his crooked steps. “How many you got under your belt?”

“What?” Pausing before a crosswalk, she gives him a pointed look. “What are you talking about?”

“Languages,” he clarifies, squinting up at the series of stop lights arcing over the width of the road. “Know you least got one ‘sides English from what you said a few days back. So, you got any others? Being learned and all that?”

“I know several.” Heat settles in through her neck, exacerbated by the thickness of her hair. In hindsight, she should have tied it up before disembarking. “It was a mandatory portion of Vishkar’s academy. Students were to study various languages in addition to our primary course loads. I spent my formative years there learning other tongues. It was useful, I suppose, as many students spoke languages other than English. It becomes easier to communicate with others once you share a common language.”

“Right. Sure. Makes sense.” Junkrat offers an inquisitive stare. “Never did tell me what you were on about, y’know.”

“On about?”

“When Roadie had us off to the tea shop,” he says. “You said something in one of them other languages. Dunno what it was.”

After a moment or two, she comes to realize he is referring to the comment she’d made in Telugu several days ago when she had accompanied him on his scrap run. She does not remember the exact wording she’d used, but she does remember the triumph of seeing Junkrat mystified and humbled as she sat in his lap. She remembers the tensing of his body, the thick swallow he’d worked down, and his reaction is etched crystal behind her eyes: flushed ears, parted mouth, stippled freckles, sundrenched hair.

The fact that she had been nestled neatly in his lap for the better part of an hour and a half crests the surface of her consciousness, and the events composing The Incident follow with haste. Even if she had managed to retain what she’d told him word for word, she has a feeling it would have slipped away under their pressing duress.

“If I recall correctly,” she says, fixating on the signals over the crosswalk and definitely _not_ Junkrat, “it was something about sarcasm. I imagine it must have been a quip to one of your many comments. You were quite liberal with them.”

“Oi, not like you wasn’t. You got a mouth on you. I ain’t about to take all the blame.”

“I can assure you whatever comments I made were considerably less frequent than yours.” The thrum of the cars sweeping across the road in front of her serves as a form of focus, but not enough. “And they were well deserved, I’m sure.”

“Yeah, well, s’not fair when you say ‘em in whatever that was,” he says. “Can’t rightly say anything if I don’t know what you’re gabbing about.”

“‘Whatever that was’ was my mother tongue,” she says. “Telugu and Urdu are my primary and secondary languages, English aside. I am proficient in many others, but unfortunately I am rusty in a number of them. It is difficult to retain fluidity when you are not immersed in the culture.” Satya then musters her will and provides him with a narrow stare. “And I would have you know ‘gabbing’ in another language is not unfair. Having you be silent every once in a while is a nice treat.”

Junkrat’s eyes flick to meet her own for a fracture of a second. “So’s you gabbing.”

Satya has no idea how to respond to that.

Once the signal switches, Junkrat follows her across. The prickling feeling of being watched traipses up her spine, and she glances to him as they reach the other side of the crosswalk. He regards her with a studious stare, thick eyebrows arched and mouth pressed thin. Today has been rife with the most amount of interaction she has had with him since The Incident, and her ability to cope seems to have lessened considerably. It does not help that she should have shut this conversation down before it even began; she should have ignored his question entirely and steered things toward a more professional topic.

“What?” she prompts, unsettled.

“Nothing,” he says with a shrug. “Just weren’t expecting it is all.”

“I’m sorry? Expecting what?”

“I dunno. All them languages. Reckon you knew a few. Two or three. Three, maybe. Four really woulda been pushing it, even for somebody like you. But it’s more than that, innit? Hard to imagine.”

“Wait. Somebody like me? What is that supposed to mean?” She dismisses him with a wave of her hand and a light scoff. “And you have the nerve to accuse me of being snippy.”

“Well, not like you weren’t. Can’t deny that.”

“Pointing out an obvious problem with a suggestion is not being snippy.”

“Didn’t say it was,” says Junkrat. “S’just the way you’re about it. I weren’t being all stiff and short with you. ‘Sides, you don’t got room to yabber on about things like that. You go calling me all sorts of stuff, but when it’s the other way ‘round, suddenly you got a problem? Don’t work that way. S’all free game. You get to call me incorrigible—” The corner of his mouth edges into a smile, “—and I get to call you snippy.”

Satya heaves a sigh and kneads at her temples. She is well aware she needs to pick and choose her battles with this man, but sometimes it proves too difficult to keep herself in check. Part of her wants to curse at him in something he cannot understand just to vent steam, but she knows that would not be a productive course of action and would ultimately provide no solution. She is already struggling with his closeness and the lingering imagery from The Incident and the residual warmth of his cheek and the trail of blond hair dipping below his shorts; she does not need to aggravate her situation any further.

“Struck a nerve there, did I?” The nudge of his elbow is unexpected and almost too much.

“You strike far too many nerves,” she says between clenched teeth.

“That right?” A satisfied laugh lilts beside her. “Got a good knack for it. Even Hog says so. Could always strike a couple more, y’know.”

“You will do nothing of the sort,” she says, her tone far more brusque than she had anticipated. “Snippy or not, we are in the middle of a serious situation and I will not have you intentionally pushing buttons just to irritate me.”

“Got a knack for that, too, love.” With a glinting Cheshire grin, his good hand’s fingers curl as if he held a detonator in their midst. His thumb raises high, and then mimics the motion of pressing down upon its button in an exaggerated swipe.

“Why must you _be_ this way,” she says, but it does not come out in English; instead, it is her mother tongue, fierce and rolling and fluid. When she glances to her left and meets his stunned gaze, she holds up one finger to prevent him from speaking. “No,” she says, forcing English forward, “no more. I do not want to hear another word out of you until we reach that construction site unless you see either Tracer or enemy agents.”

Junkrat breathes a noisy exhale. “Oi, you don’t get to just—”

“Our objective is to reach a secure location so that I can open the path,” she interrupts, “and that is what we are going to do. I have no desire to engage in further conversation with you if it means you are going to deliberately be a nuisance.”

“Look, not deliberate, right,” he says. “Not like I’m mucking up your work or nothing. Just was having a bit of fun is all. Laugh or two.”

“Well, I am not laughing. It appears we have two disparate senses of humor.”

“Yeah?” The pads of his fingers rub at his cheek where she’d kissed. “Seemed to like it just fine before.”

It takes great deal of willpower to continue walking. A twisting pang of discomfort screws down by her lungs when she realizes he is referring to The Incident, if in a roundabout way. It snags her breath back and holds it halfway down her throat because as much as she would like to deny it, he’s right: she _had_ enjoyed his humor, even if she’d had to warm up to it first. It’s clear he’s noticed her chilly shift in behavior since The Incident as well as her attempts to foster distance between herself and him, and whether this is his way of addressing it or whether it simply serves as an innocuous comment, she cannot bring herself to respond.

There is no obligation, she thinks. There isn’t. She does not need to participate in anything beyond professional conversations. Harmony and discord and balance be damned; she does not need to accept anything about him or the sway he has over her. The Incident will have happened, regardless of her stance, and she has every right to ignore it.

The remainder of the trek to the construction site is quiet. Junkrat seems cognizant of the gravity of her request, and so he refrains from making unnecessary remarks or any prying small talk. Aside from a single close encounter with a collection of Talon agents—which Junkrat had avoided by whipping her back by the wrist and tucking them both around another corner until the danger had passed—the journey is also uneventful. The increasing crowds and traffic pose more of a problem than anything else, and Satya finds herself wishing she hadn’t snapped at him so she might have something less stressful to focus on. The constant murmurings and the drone of vehicles’ engines is not quite enough to be overwhelming, but they still buzz in the film of her ears and disrupt her concentration all the same, and although she hates to admit it, Junkrat serves as an excellent focal point to stave off the world.

To the south, Lijiang Tower remains stark and proud among the other skyscrapers and shorter buildings. From the faint blue text imposed by her visor, it is nine hundred meters away, shrouded by a velvet pink sky and the gleam from the rising sun. Absently, she starts to wonder if Tracer had bolted ahead and made for the landmark in hopes of meeting them there. She suspects Morrison will make that their primary objective once the teleporter has been established and everyone has been brought through the path, and she hopes that wherever Tracer has disappeared to, she is someplace safe.

The construction site itself is far more elaborate than distance had led her to believe. Its perimeter has been closed off, barred by iridescent orange cones and lattice metal fencework buried into surrounding soil and kept aloft by cinderblocks. While there is lingering evidence of the workers’ presence at the site’s outskirts in the forms of discarded canisters, stacked steel supports, scattered supplies, and a particularly large crane, it seems as though none of them have turned up for the day. With how their luck has turned after the morning’s events, this is a welcome change.

From the safety of the sidewalk, Satya peers between the diamond gaps that compose the wired fence. The entire property has been surrounded by its presence, and the gates farther down appear to have been forced shut with a chain and padlock. The building itself looks to be about ten stories tall, and two of the outer faces that have been lined with scaffolding appear to be only half finished. The foundation of the building and its frame has been put in place as well as sets of rudimentary walls and cladding—sheets of glass and metal have been applied to only two of the outer walls—but it is lacking proper insulation as well as windows and various other components. It seems as though the structure has been gutted to its bones and is now being subjected to an entirely new remodel, but that is only an assumption.

Satya strides down to the metal gate. Upon further inspection, it appears she was correct: it has been chained shut, and without a key to the padlock or some other method, there will be no getting past.

“Well,” she says, letting go of the lock, “do we have any plans on how to enter?”

Junkrat appraises the fence with a creased brow and pursed lips. “Could always blow a hole in it.”

“That is absolutely not an option,” she says.

“I know, I know. Quiet, right. Least you know it’d work. Be through in ten seconds, tops.” Lacing his fingers along the wire, he gives it a testing tug or two, as if to gauge its strength and hold. “Well, ‘side from that, could give it a climb. Not too high. Might be worth a shot. Could probably pop over no problem.”

Her stomach coils at the thought. “Junkrat, we are supposed to be inconspicuous. Climbing fences is not exactly inconspicuous. I have a suspicion your equipment would either bend the fence or make you fall over. That, and I do not think climbing would be smart or feasible with my footwear.”

With a peaked eyebrow, he glances down to her heeled shoes. “Right. Well, there goes that idea. Hm. Maybe we could give it a quick snip or something? I mean, I got wire cutters. Reckon they’d make short work of it.” His left hand fidgets in one of his pouches before he hisses a curse between his teeth. “Ah, left ‘em all the way back at home base. Didn’t even think to bring ‘em. Not like I were expecting anything like this. Expected me setting up charges somewhere or blasting some of them wankers, not getting ‘round fences.”

“Wire cutters would have been useful,” she says. “I would make a set of stairs or perhaps a ladder, but I feel that would draw just as much attention if not more than blowing it up. Vishkar’s technology is unique, and I doubt seeing someone conjure hard-light structures in the street would be particularly inconspicuous.”

“What, you too flashy for the day crowd?” Junkrat lowers himself to the ground and sets his grenade launcher to rest upon the sidewalk. Folding his elbows upon his haunches, he scowls at the building beyond the fence. “Well, ‘less you got some other idea, I’m gonna climb. Might be able to find something to crack it open. Big rock or something. Construction site, right? Just bash the lock clean.”

“That is not particularly inconspicuous, either,” she remarks, concealing a snicker behind the crystal of her gauntlet.

“Right, well, I don’t see you coming up with anything,” he mutters. “‘Specially _inconspicuous_ anythings. Can’t be doing all the brainstorming here, y’know. Either I blow it up, climb over and find some way to yank that open, or we gotta think of something else.”

Junkrat turns to gaze up at her, curiosity sousing through warm amber and mouth crooked in thought. The warmth of the sun catches a swatch across his face, illuminating the freckles across his nose and the bright gold of his hair. As if lightning crackled deep through his bones, he leaps upward and staggers toward her with a manic grin.

“Wait!” He skips past his grenade launcher and pauses two steps in front of her, hunched and bristling with excitement. “Wait, wait, wait. Can’t you make something like wire cutters with them tricks of yours? I mean, you made this thing, right—” Junkrat tugs out the hard-light blade from its sheath at the back of his belt, presenting its sapphire edge to her in triumph, “—don’t that mean you can make something more for snipping than, say, I dunno, slashing or stabbing?”

In spite of herself, Satya succumbs to a thin smile. “Well, I suppose I could give it a try. The design itself isn’t difficult. The problem is I do not know if it would have a sharp enough edge to cut through the wire. I don’t exactly make sharp weaponry like this on a daily basis, you know.”

Lowering her gaze to the knife, she drags the pads of her fingers over the flat of the blade. Its surface is smooth, sleek, and suffused with his body heat. His hand clasps at the curved hilt, the palm of his glove against the grip, and she swears she sees his fingers clench.

“This one is better than the last in design and sharpness,” she says, giving it an affirmative tap. “I could replicate it in a different shape, but whether it will be sharp enough is another issue.”

Junkrat bites at his tongue and regards the fence with a searching look. “Well, only one way to find out. Let’s give it a burl, yeah?”

Flipping the knife about in his hand in an adroit spin, he lopes up to the wire and tugs at it with metal fingers. He guides the edge of the blade under one of the strands of wire, right at the top of one of the diamonds, and he begins to work upward in a sawing motion. Satya had expected the grinding to be much less quiet, and finds herself pleasantly surprised at her creation’s sharpness.

“Did you whet its edge?” she asks, watching as the spindle of wires pares further apart with each stroke.

“Eh, a bit. Not much. Roadie’s got a couple of them little stones somewhere, right. Dunno where he got ‘em from or why he’s got ‘em. Always had ‘em as far as I know. Got this little case. Opened it up, threw one right at me face and said, ‘Rat, you best take care of that thing.’ Smashed me right in the nose.” He sniffs, pausing mid-stroke to roll his eyes. “Lug said it like I don’t know no better. Weapons ain’t any good if you don’t keep ‘em all nice. Got something jammed up her couple years back—” Junkrat jerks his head toward his grenade launcher on the sidewalk by his feet and resumes sawing, “—weren’t doing all the good stuff like I shoulda, keeping her all in shape. Thought she was gonna bust on me. Had to take her apart and do some tinkering to get her working right again.”

With a grunt, the knife wears down the final pieces and cleaves the twisted wires in two. By her estimate, there had only been approximately fifteen seconds’ worth of active work, which was far better than what she had anticipated. Junkrat seems to share the sentiment; brow creased in interest, he brings the blade up to his face and inspects its edge.

“Didn’t do nothing to it,” he says, his voice tempered with a note of wonderment. Junkrat turns to her with a broad grin and gives the knife a playful wiggle. “Some dynamite tricks you got there, love.”

“Well, I think it would please you to know I have a few more up my sleeve.”

Satya flattens her left palm skyward and pinches her fingers together as she envisions a rudimentary design for a pair of wire cutters. With a brisk flourish, she pulls them apart and a small, sapphire set of interlocking blades is brought into reality above the plane of her hand. They are not as detailed or ornate as the blade she had crafted for him, as she believes functionality should trump style in this instance, but they are not hard on the eyes by any means.

She snatches them by their ample grip and takes two purposeful strides toward Junkrat. After a moment to study the space he’d already cut, she pries the handles apart, lines up the blades around the wire just below, and shoves them together in a curt clip. To her delight, the metal gives way as butter would part for a knife.

“Perfect,” says Junkrat, entertaining a fit of pleased laughter. “Bloody _dynamite_.”

His compliments should not make her feel so warm. “While I do appreciate it, I don’t think it is quite that impressive. I am only doing what I do best: I create solutions to problems.”

“Yeah, well, ain’t never seen solutions like that.” He watches her clip the remaining wires down the fence with mischievous pleasure. “You can make just ‘bout anything, right?”

“Well, there are some constraints, of course.” Satya snips the final wire toward the bottom before returning to the initial cut and making her way in a horizontal fashion. “Large, complex, or new items would require more work. In order for me to truly replicate something, I must break an item down into its smaller components to get a better feel for how it works in the world. This accounts for measurements or other important subtleties. That is why I like to plan things in the form of blueprints. It lets me view things from another angle. Once I have made something enough, or if it is of very simple design, I can create it anytime I wish.”

“Don’t suppose you’d be too keen on making something a bit… different?”

Satya pauses before cutting another wire and regards him with stoicism. “No. That is out of the question.”

His eager smile deflates. “Oi, you didn’t even know what I was gonna ask.”

“I know exactly what you were going to ask,” she says, clamping the blades over the final portion, “and the answer is no, I will not create hard-light explosives for you.”

“How’d you even—”

“You are predictable,” she says. “Well, you are unpredictable. But you are also predictable. At least in some aspects.”

“Don’t tell me you ain’t thinking ‘bout it,” he insists. “Wouldn’t even have to spend time scribbling. I got all that done for you. Well, not the measurement part. Not like I really need any of that. But I got heaps of working models for you, right. Unwired ones, no charges. They won’t go explodey or nothing. Stuff for you to have a good look at. Can you imagine what that’d be like? C’mon, think about it. Just pop those things in and _kaboom_! We got ourselves instant fireworks.”

With a sigh, she hands him the hard-light cutters. “As hard as this must be for you to accept, I have no real desire to devote my craft to nothing but weaponry. I prefer a more defensive approach.”

“Best defense’s a good offense. Ain’t that right?” He snatches the cutters away and stuffs them into one of his pouches. “Give ‘em no room to toss no punches and you got yourself a done deal.”

“Not all real world situations are quite so cut and dry, Junkrat.” Pushing the cut fence aside, she ducks down and sidles through, careful to keep her blouse and slacks away from the ends of greedy wire fingers. A faint wisp of Rio’s fires flickers beneath her skin, and she finds herself succumbing to a shiver as she straightens herself on the other side. “Sometimes, there are other things at stake that prevent you from having an offense to begin with.”

Junkrat grabs a hold of his grenade launcher before sinking into a more favorable position to get himself through the opening. The bulk of his RIP-tire bends the other side of the fence as he pushes through, and without too much further struggle, he manages to stagger out into the construction site. He exhales a short breath before straightening himself and squinting up toward the top of the building with his good hand arced over his eyes.

“Looking like we got us a bit of a climb,” he says. “Reckon it’s got stairs inside?”

“I would certainly assume so,” she says. “It looks as if the rough interior is mostly finished. Lacking stairs at this stage would be very poor design.”

“Well, it’s either find some stairs or we go and shimmy up the side there.” Junkrat makes a vague gesture toward the scaffolding that adorns the building’s crude faces with the barrel of his grenade launcher. “Probably don’t got any lifts yet. Working ones, that is.”

“No, I don’t think it would. Those tend to be later additions. There may be a freight lift to transport material, however.” Satya’s gaze follows the scaffolding, constructing a potential path among its rises and rails. It is a complicated route and an amount of acrobatics would be involved, but she has no doubt it could be done if truly pressed. “I do believe stairs might be our best option,” she says. “Much simpler.”

“Righto. Stairs it is.”

The climb is not a terrible affair. In truth, the state of the floors is more of a bother than any physical exertion. The first floor is flat foundation, rough concrete, and rigid steel columns poised to keep the building aloft. With a severe dearth of doors, windows, and electricity, pale shafts of natural light pour through the interior and carve away at the dark wedged between makeshift walls and dusty thresholds. The stark scent of unearthed soil, poured cement, and the lingering sharpness of insulation swathed blocks of metal beams permeates the floor. Dirt has suffused the entire area in its current state, and she makes a mental note to scrub her shoes upon her return to Gibraltar.

Thankfully, the stairwells are composed of the usual squared spiral that stretches upward toward the roof. They are in an equal state of dustiness and disarray with stacks of miscellaneous materials wrapped in layers of plastic, all clustered at varying halfway points between the floors. Satya steps between them and avoids discarded shards of steel with cautious strides, keeping a wary eye open for signs of wandering workers and Talon agents alike. The enclosed hollow of the stairwell gives the outside traffic a distant, faded hum, and it serves as an underlying cadence for her footsteps and Junkrat’s awkward _scuff-click_ as he climbs the stairs at her side. His grenades make a soft, gentle clinking along his harness, and his good hand scrapes along the wall to help keep balance.

As she ascends the last few floors, Satya pauses to bring sets of sentry turrets into the world. She positions them above open doorways and upon the undersides of stairs with precise symbols of her hands, anticipating any pursuing persons would be too focused to look upward and avoid her traps. Junkrat seems to appreciate the choice placement, giving an approving nod as he stops a step or two ahead to watch her work. As she tends to her turrets, he produces a charge or two of his inventory and sticks them in varying intervals along the steps. She doesn’t know how he plans to detonate them until he fishes a detonator out of the primary pack slung around his hip and tucks it between his belt and one of the loops of his trousers.

When she conjures the final pair of turrets by the squared opening that leads out to the roof, Junkrat digs through his pouches and produces a somewhat smaller version of the bear traps she’d seen scattered across the floor by his bed. Puzzled, Satya halts mid-placement and affords him a questioning squint. Junkrat does not seem to mind; with a shrug, he wields it as one would a puppet, fingers clasped over its folded mechanisms, and he coaxes its jaws open and closed as if it cared to speak.

“Not bad, yeah?” He pries it into its primed position before tossing it below the bottom-most step. “Might give ‘em a good snap if they’re all held up by your gizmos there.”

It’s startling. Satya has never considered it before, but his brand of weaponry synergizes quite well with her own. With her turrets serving as distractions, he could rid the stairwell of anyone intending to follow with the press of a button. Not to mention his grenade launcher would make short work of any pursuing agents from such a vantage point.

“Not bad at all,” she admits—and she means it.

The rooftop gives way to a bustling cityscape. The sun has made its appearance among the skyline, rich pink flanking the golden drop like feathery plumes, soaring ships above eclipsing its brilliant burn. Squeezing her eyes half shut, Satya raises the metal of her left hand before her to stave off the light and instead turns her attention to the surrounding buildings. Warmth gleams across glossy glass and pristine metal plates; the neon that once scorched Lijiang’s night has receded into thin smoulders that cling to shards of shadows beneath the towering skyscrapers and piercing spires.

Tinted in the comforting blue of her visor, the city unfurls around her in jagged components. The crisp text on her HUD reflects six hundred and twenty-five meters from the intended coordinates, and she glares at the spike of Lijiang Tower from her perch atop the abandoned building. From here, if she extends her reach, she can arc bridges right toward it. The fall of the cityscape curves just as she needs; she can see it all as if it were outlined in the pages of her schematics, each structure and its peaks and how she might weave reality to string them all together.

Purpose and pride swelling in the depth of her chest, she presses a finger to her communicator. “We have successfully reached the intended location,” she says. “It is approximately six hundred meters from Lijiang Tower. Prepare for the teleporter to come online. I will create its waypoint momentarily.”

“Roger that,” comes Morrison’s voice. “All of us are standing by. Ready for transport.”

Satya turns and makes her way toward the center of the rooftop. Before she can begin to envision the newest model of her teleporter, Junkrat tosses something at her feet. As much as she would not like to admit it, she flinches upon its landing.

“Oi, don’t be like that. It ain’t gonna bite. Promise. Not ‘less you want it to.” Junkrat is crouched on one knee, preoccupied with setting up a pair of thin mines by the roof’s bare opening. He shakes a detonator at her with his good hand and nods at the device by her shoes. “Got a feeling, right. Just in case.”

She stoops down and picks it up with her gauntleted hand. “What am I supposed to do with it?”

“Keep it. Purse, pocket, down your shirt, wherever. Makes no difference, really.” Seeming satisfied with his work, he hoists himself to his feet and claps his hands as if to shake off dust. “Just something small for now. Goes to these lovelies. They’ll pack a bloody good blast.”

Satya does not want the detonator. She already has two pieces of him that have made their residence upon her nightstand where she sleeps and she does not need another one. This is a different situation, she knows—this is business, this is protection—and yet the warmth of his body seeps into her palm when she rolls it across and into her other hand. She supposes she has little choice but to comply, and so with her heart a stirring beast behind her ribs and her throat wrought with a tightness she must swallow down, she drops the detonator into the pocket of her slacks.

Conjuring the teleporter is somehow better than her testing attempts. Her mind is not as clear as it should be, but it is just enough, just barely, and with fingers poised and her body curved in a pose to accommodate, she draws in a deep breath and pulls its design into the world. The wireframe glitters in the sunlight and fills in with pale ivory among its edges. The machinery clicks and clatters, and as the center opens up, the soothing blue static of a portal begins to appear.

It isn’t long until the first of the team comes through. Surprisingly, it isn’t Morrison—it’s Ana instead. Her beige coat materializes among the mass of brilliant flickering. After she steps through, rifle and braid and eyepatch and all, Ana turns about gives a curt shake, as if disoriented.

“Well now,” she says, a gloved hand against her mouth, “that was an unusual experience.”

“It takes some getting used to,” says Satya. “You are traveling a decent distance in a matter of seconds, after all. A few more uses and everything should be fine.”

Ana nods, her brow creased as though she were not fully convinced. She leans to the side and peers behind Satya before raising her hand in salutation. “Hello, Junkrat.”

“G’day, Nan.” He returns the wave with a detonator in hand. “Have a nice little jaunt ‘cross the city?”

“Of course,” she says, lifting her rifle from its strap across her back. “It was quite seamless. Strange, but seamless. I have no complaints.”

The next is Mei, who comes through much more composed. Her drone is attached to the liquid canister strapped over her parka, and her endothermic blaster is holstered at her hip. She offers Satya a warm smile as she steps out of the static. “Thanks for the lift!”

“Any time,” says Satya. “It was my pleasure to be of service.”

Mei regards the teleporter base with interest as Roadhog’s giant form flashes into existence. “I don’t suppose you’d allow me to have a look at that, would you? It’s amazing! I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

“You might, but you wouldn’t be able to replicate the technology involved, which would defeat the purpose of looking to begin with.” Satya eyes Junkrat’s bodyguard out of the corner of her eye before greeting him with a light wave. “Roadhog.”

Roadhog only cracks his neck with a twist and grunts in reply. His hook chain jingles as he shifts out of the way and joins Junkrat toward the rooftop opening.

Morrison is the last to jump through, and he does so with a surge of fierce blue lingering at the edges of his body. He steps out of its presence, seeming less disoriented than Ana, yet still affected by the sudden jump in distance. His rifle is strapped over his back, masking the marked _76_ across his jacket’s surface, and he unclips his facemask as he pulls a steady inhale.

“One hell of a ride you got there.” He glances to the teleporter with fierceness among the cobalt of his eyes. “Not bad, though. Not bad at all. Useful. I’ll be damned if that won’t help in the future.” After settling it back over his mouth and eyes, he turns his focus to Satya. “No word from Lena?”

“No, unfortunately,” she says. “We have not seen her at all. I had a thought that she might go toward the Tower, but that is only a guess. It is the highest and most visible landmark in the immediate area. If I were her, that is where I would have gone.”

“Well, that’s about where the coordinates are. It wouldn’t surprise me.” Morrison rolls his shoulders and shifts toward the skyscape, Lijiang Tower at its center. “That’s where I would have gone, too. Knowing her, she would have found a safe place to stick around until the rest of us made it. We need to get her back.”

“Is that our destination, then?” Ana approaches the edge of the building and settles her rifle over its lip. Lowering her eye to the scope, she peers through and aims toward the Tower. “It would be the most obvious choice. It would also be our best chance at finding Lena. There is not much to see from here, but I have a feeling we may have better luck if we moved closer.”

Morrison takes his eyes away from the Tower. “Symmetra. You said you can make bridges, right?”

“Yes, I can,” replies Satya. “I have already planned the path. It will take us as close as we need. I will need a moment to prepare the bridge, but after it has been set, it will stay sturdy for as long as required.”

“What about visibility?” asks Morrison. “Are these things noticeable?”

“They are not opaque structures by any means. They are thin structures of hard-light, so they hold their own translucence. If someone looked very close, they might see it, but to an ordinary bystander on the street below? There is no cause for worry.”

Morrison nods in approval. “Good. Let’s give it a shot, then. Bring one in.”

Satya strides across the roof and approaches Ana. Drawing up to the old sniper’s side, she reroutes her attention over toward the parallel rooftop across the six-lane glowing streets below. The bridge would have to be at an upward angle to meet it, she thinks, but nothing too sharp. It takes little effort to envision it, as there are not a lot of slope modifications to make in its structure, and after a moment or two of concentration, she paves a glittering path of translucent blue between the pair of roofs.

“Fantastic,” says Mei. She walks close with vivid curiosity and inspects the start of the bridge with a gloved hand pressing against its surface. When she seems content with its sturdiness, she hops up onto the lip of the building and takes a tentative step forward. “This is incredible. I don’t have any words. Your technology is _amazing_ , Symmetra.”

“Thank you,” she says, and she feels the hollow of her chest burn with swelling pride. Has it truly been so long since others were fascinated with her work?

“See you on the other side!” With a delighted grin, Mei starts her way across.

Ana hoists herself just after her, taking a moment to give the bridge a good stamp of her foot before continuing. Satya thinks she can hear her chant “Don’t look down” under her breath, but it might be the amalgam of the traffic below and the strength of the passing winds.

Roadhog lumbers past, lifting himself over the edge and onto the sheet of hard-light. A small part of her fears for its structural integrity, but the logic in her knows that there would be no way he could hope to shatter it under his weight. Junkrat lopes along right afterward, lifting a two-fingered wave and a wink at her before following his colossal friend.

Morrison approaches last. He raises one leg and lets his boot rest on the lip of the building. “You coming?”

“I will follow shortly,” she says. “I must take care of the teleporter first. Once it is destroyed and the connection is severed, then we can proceed. I do not want to take chances of someone getting aboard the ship.”

“Fair enough.” He affords her a brusque nod. “Be quick about it. We’ll be waiting.”

“Of course,” she says, and watches as he makes his way across.

When Morrison is about halfway, Satya turns and heads toward the teleporter. The rippling static stares back at her with a cool glow among the pale roof. Around her, the city falls away into crumbling debris as the ocean roils up to lick at her heels and gnaw at her hands; Junkrat’s arms are too tight at her waist, his nose flush with her skin and his mouth welling watery whispers against her neck. He’s cold, shivering, the heat sucked from his bones like a beast lapping marrow, and the geometry between her fingers trembles as she spars with her own inadequacies and forces them to bend the knee. Suspended in a pocket of blinding light, wedged somewhere between the timeslip and the remaining universe, the tick of Junkrat’s heartbeat swells to fill her eardrums.

 _I_ swear _, swear on me mum’s grave—_

Satya banishes him with a punctuated shake of her head and fingers to her temples. The fact that something of her own creation can trigger such fierce memories of him elicits a stark, twisting feeling. As much as his presence tries to nest its way in beneath her heart, she cannot allow it. There is no room for distractions like this, she thinks. There will never be. There are more important things that deserve her attention, that _requir_ e it, and he is not one of them.

She kneels by the teleporter’s ivory base and pulls the photon projector from her hip. Conjuring a blot of ammunition in her left palm, she pops it into the projector’s chamber and squeezes her right hand around its trigger. The brilliant azure beam of light locks onto the base, its familiar drone a comforting sound over the distant traffic, and it begins to burn with increasing intensity. Piece by piece, the teleporter begins to disintegrate; the blur of blue vanishes in a flicker of fading particles, and the wireframe that once held the construct gives way to open air.

When she hears footsteps, she thinks nothing of it. The assumption that Morrison would turn back for her if she proved herself too slow has settled at the forefront of her mind, and while she knows he is doing it for punctuality’s sake, a part of her still takes personal offense.

“I am just about finished,” she says, easing her fingers from the projector’s trigger. “I promise, it will not be much longer.”

“No, it definitely will.”

It occurs to her far too late that the steps had not come from the bridge.

Satya jolts to her feet and spins to face the rooftop opening. Approaching from its direction is a man clad in billowing black. A thick coat drags at his calves and a hooded cowl is draped across his head, large shotgun rounds strapped across the bulk of his chest and down by his belt. His face, obscured by the stark white of a mask, appears to be fraught with wisps of lingering shadow; dark tendrils swirl from its eye sockets and the open slices that would form a nose.

He thumps forward with menacing steps, untouched and unscathed.

“How,” she manages, eyes darting to the stairwell. “ _How_ did you get past the turrets?”

The man reaches under the folds of his coat. From his hips, he produces a pair of ebon shotguns, gleaming stark midnight beneath the morning sun. He lifts one arm, unfazed by the weapon’s sheer size, and he aims at the remnants of the teleporter.

“Very carefully,” he rasps, and fires.

Satya wastes no time. With her left fist, she conjures a sheaf of hard-light around her body. It melds to her extremities and sticks to her Vishkar uniform as a second skin. Muscles taut and heart aflame with bristling adrenaline, she rushes to the side and squeezes the trigger of her projector. Its coiled light stems out, radiant and bright, and it reaches for the man’s chest.

He wrenches away with a hiss and fires both barrels in her direction. The first burst of buckshot is too wide and misses her; the second spatters down her chest and sinks into the welded front of her shield before spitting back out to the rooftop beneath. Winded from the blast, Satya clamps her left arm over her belly and struggles to breathe. It takes precious seconds to recover, but she staggers after him and keeps her hand squeezed over the projector’s trigger. Its tendril of light grows brighter still, feeding on the ammunition and machinery within, and she knows she will have to create more very soon.

The man seems to be weakened by its churning grasp. Another shot fires from his left hand, but it is disrupted by the projector’s intensity and buckshot stains the rooftop in a scorch of black and shards of metal. She lunges after him with viciousness lining her jaws; crushed thoughts of fight or flight rocket through her nerves and the visceral need for survival pumps through her legs and she constricts her fingers together in a metal fist and slugs him straight in the stomach with all she can muster.

At first, the contact is normal.

And then his abdomen gives way—and her hand starts to sink through.

A guttural snarl of pain unfurls from behind the mask. The shotguns drop from his clawed gloves to clatter by his feet and clamber at the delicate film of her ears. With a deep, shaking growl, a great plume of curling smoke erupts from his body in a choking burst.

“ _Gods_.” Satya recoils in horror, gauntlet twisting away and held sealed over her mouth.

The projector’s light has ceased. It is no longer able to latch onto the well of roiling mist the man in black has become. His form is not corporeal; he is beyond this earth, a mass of gnawing particles and flowing night. A puncture of white stares back at her as he falls back toward the rooftop opening, and she swears she can hear the cold drone of a laugh.

He isn’t human, she thinks; gods, he isn’t human, he isn’t human, _he isn’t human_.

“Nice little gadget you’ve got there. I think it gave me a scratch.” He rematerializes too far for her weapon’s primary reach. All of the swirls of black soak back into his body and fill him full as if they breathed in his stead. “That won’t stop death, you know. Everyone’s date is marked. You will die just like the rest of Overwatch.”

Satya’s mind is ablaze. She does not know who this man is, _what_ this man is, but she knows she cannot let him interfere. Rife with pulsing adrenaline, she plunges her left hand into her pocket and pulls out Junkrat’s detonator. Her thumb flips up the lid and hovers over the red button.

“I think not,” she breathes, and mashes it down.

Bells toll through her ears in shrill pendulums. The explosion culls part of the roof and leaves the opening a cracked, crumbled maw. Dust and smoke suffuse the air, and she finds herself coughing to clear her lungs. As the wind whisks the air debris away, Satya raises the photon projector in preparation for reengagement, but the man in black is nowhere to be found.

She scans the expanse of the roof, heart thumping in the back of her throat.

Where did he…?

“Surprise.”

Her weapon is yanked from her grasp by cold claws. The photon projector clacks off to the side, far beyond her reach. Something powerful clamps around her wrist from behind and twists her about, straining her shoulder in its socket, and she comes face to face with the etched visage of his white mask. Dark mist rises from the pitch punctures of its eyes and the crooked carving of its nose, and a gravelly growl grinds out from behind. The blood in her veins stills into permafrost; dread drags its nails down the length of her backbone and bites into the delicate spindles of nerves at its center.

“What manner of creature _are_ you?” she whispers.

The man engulfs both of her wrists with a single fist and lifts her off of her feet. He begins to walk, slow and purposeful, and stares at her with dark, dead eyes.

“I am the Reaper,” he says, “and I have come for vengeance.”

When Satya realizes he’s taking her to the edge of the roof, she starts to thrash. Her heart conducts a chorus behind her ribs and she kicks at him with all of her might, sending her sharp heels into his abdomen, his groin, his thighs, wherever she can manage, but her shoes sift straight through his corporeal being; none of her attacks deter him. He continues to walk, hand clasped tightly about her wrists, the heaviness of his footsteps traversing about her peripheral.

“ _Rakshasa_ ,” she says, coiling up her knee to bash his throat. “You are a _monster_!”

“No need for that. Keep your little mouth shut.”

Reaper’s free hand plucks her visor from her head, tosses it aside, and then clamps down over her lips, forcing her voice right back down her throat. The chilled claws of his armor scrape at her cheeks and her breathing is muffled beneath the hard leather of his glove. Her entire being shouts at her to retaliate, to attack, to strike at him and bring him to his knees, but her photon projector didn’t work, Junkrat’s bombs didn’t work, her physical attacks didn’t work—what on earth _would_?

Before she can respond, the man in black lifts her over the building’s edge. He lets her wrists go, and all that holds her above the world is his palm across her face. Her hands surge to clamp around his wrist and offset the weight and strain, squeezing, and the delicate pressure of something at her left arm draws her attention. She cannot tell behind the bone white of the mask he wears, but he appears to be inspecting her gauntlet, and the thought makes her start to writhe in his grasp.

“Well, well,” he says, his voice a dark, raspy snarl, “so one of Vishkar’s is working for Jack and the monkey. They really must be desperate. I wonder, what did they offer you?” His hand tenses over her mouth, as if he preferred she not reply. “It wasn’t much, I take it. If it was, they would have been a lot farther along by now. Pitiful. You were so easy to find. Miss Oxton’s little communicator was extremely helpful.”

Satya tries to reach the lip of the building with her shoe, but his other hand catches her by the calf.

“Ah, ah, ah. No, you’re not coming back this way. If you want to come back—” He pushes her leg back out toward the open air and relaxes his grip over her mouth, “—you’re gonna have to climb.”

His claws unlatch, her arms are pried loose, and the world around her begins to drop.

The buildings start to pierce upward at an alarming rate. The sky melts into a pale blue above and soft brushstrokes of clouds top the spire of Lijiang Tower in the distance. Flight buries between her lungs; the billowing black void of Reaper watches her as she dips past his chest, hips, boots. Frantic and afraid and with a scream in the thick of her throat, she throws out her arms against the building and grasps for purchase—

And clasps a hold of the very edge.

Satya’s gauntlet digs into the gritty material of the rooftop. The strain rolls up her arm beneath its metal casing as she holds, and as the seconds pass and yet another wave of adrenaline plumes through her body, pain starts to crawl its way through her muscles. Tingling prickles bury through the metacarpals of her palm and down beneath the soles of her feet; her body clamors for her to reach and fasten her other hand to its edge, but she fears that if she moves, she might let go.

Taking a glance upward, she catches sight of Reaper as he takes one step up over the lip of the building.

“What a precarious position,” he remarks, nudging his boot close to her fingertips. “It would be a shame if someone were to make you lose your grip.”

“Don’t,” she pleads.

“Sorry. I don’t make the rules. Everybody dies.”

The front of his boot starts to push at her fingers. Satya grasps at the building with her right hand, but she can’t reach high enough without shifting her weight. Terror sluicing through her veins, she trembles as she feels her gauntlet start to loosen. She squints her eyes shut and bites at her cheek; the taste of copper reeks against her tongue as sweat clears down her temples and wetness curves at the corners of her eyes.

“Hey. Look at it this way. From this high up? It’ll be a quick one. Just make sure you land on your head.” A rumbling chuckle resonates from somewhere behind the mask. “Try not to be so useless in the afterlife.”

“ _OI!_ The hell’d you just say to my friend?”

Satya’s eyes snap open. Her heart hammers harder beneath her breastbone and she works down a dry swallow of blood. Junkrat is here—gods, he came after her, she can’t believe it—and he’s close, so very close. She’s not going to die, she’s not going to die, she’s not, everything will be fine, it _will_ —

“Don’t go anywhere.” Reaper jumps back from the ledge and casts her a glance. “I want to watch.”

As his heavy footsteps recede, Satya’s desperation overcomes her. She tries to regain her initial purchase upon the roof’s edge with creeping fingers, but the ache pinching down the length of her arm is becoming unbearable. Her shoulder hurts, bearing her entire weight, and the pain makes it too difficult to move. Pressing her lips together in frustration, she tries to lift her right hand upward in effort to join the other, but each attempt is as fruitless as the last.

Incoherent shouting bleeds into her senses. It’s Junkrat’s voice, that much she knows, but she can’t tell if there are others. She thinks she can hear the droning growl of Reaper, but she can’t be sure of that, either. Echoes of gunshots pierce through her head and the telltale burst of Junkrat’s grenades crash from overhead. With the traffic below and the commotion above, everything seems to crunch in and muffle around her.

Crushing her gauntleted fingers into the building’s edge, Satya hangs there and prays Junkrat can somehow kill a man that cannot be harmed.

It isn’t long before the aftermath of a particularly wracking explosion swirls overhead. The scuffing of Junkrat’s steps is somewhere close, somewhere very close; close enough to where she can hear his delighted laughter. She doesn’t know what that means for Reaper, but she hopes he’s made his exit—forcefully or otherwise.

“Oi, mate, where you going?” calls Junkrat. The broadness of his grin can be heard through the lilting timbre of his voice, taunting and cocksure and too satisfied. “Don’t you get all smoky on me! I ain’t done with you!”

The resounding _thump_ of something heavy hitting the roof resounds above her. She’s sure she can hear the material beneath start to groan in protest. The jingling of a chain follows, tugging between metal fingers, and then the unmistakable rev of an engine roars through her eardrums.

“Special delivery!” he crows. “Get _rooted_ , mate!”

Satya can feel the moment Junkrat lets go. The power of the engine shakes through the building and through her fingers and burrows straight down into her bones. She can feel it crawl across the surface of the roof, spikes digging into warm cement, and she can feel the pistons chug in the bulk of its center.

Get him, she thinks. Get him, get him, _get him_.

The force of the explosion nearly makes her lose her grip. Biting back the echoing ring, she takes a shuddering breath and tries to ignore the pain as she reworks her fingers. It doesn’t seem to work; the edge is starting to give, and no matter how she tries to push forward, she cannot regain the position she held. Panic flooding her lungs, she thrusts her right hand upward in one last attempt to reach the ledge, but she falls just short—and Satya’s fingers start to slip.

This can’t happen. It can’t. Not here, not so far away, not from a _roof_. Anything would have been better, anything; if she had a choice, she would take the plunge beneath the waves than the fate that awaits her below. The ocean’s cold pressure would be far kinder to her than a drop from a ten story building to rushing traffic and solid pavement. It would have been a better choice.

Why couldn’t she have died there instead?

Because you would have taken him with you, comes the answer—and she accepts its truth in shivering silence as she starts to fall.

“No, no, no! C’mon, c’mon, you ain’t going nowhere!”

An orange hand plunges from above, and Junkrat clamps onto her gauntlet. She jars to a sudden halt and hisses as pressure is added to her shoulder’s strain. Glancing upward, she opens her eyes to see him stooped over the edge of the building, his belly against the lip of the roof. His teeth are bared as he reaches his good hand out for hers, his fingers callused and his glove damp with sweat.

“Where—where is he?” she breathes.

“Gone,” he replies, exertion draining at his voice. “He’s off the bloody roof now. RIP-tire rolled him off and blew him up down the other side. Reckon the work crew here’s gonna have themselves busy for a while.” He stretches out his arm a little further, maneuvering himself to gain more leverage. “Your lovely little bridge needs a bit of a touch up. Hope you don’t—hah, c’mon—hope you don’t mind.”

“That is the least of my worries,” she says. Tension coils through her body as she grits her teeth and tries to meet him.

“Good. Reckon you’d be cross.” Junkrat grins, the sun soaking through his hair and across his teeth in a sluice of gold. “You all right?”

“It hurts,” she manages, struggling to reach upward.

“I know,” he says, “I know, but just—just, hah, c’mon, bit more now, lemme get you—”

When her hand clasps with his, she clenches hard and doesn’t let go.

In a surge of strength, Junkrat hauls her up. Her shoes kiss the side of the building, the ledge, and then solid ground as he brings her onto the roof. If her legs weren’t jelly and her equilibrium weren’t askew, she would have dusted herself, stood straight, and thanked him for his effort. Unfortunately, neither is true, and so she stumbles forward on jelly legs and skewed balance and collides into him with little ceremony, sending him toppling to his back.

Junkrat yelps in shock and brings her with him. His good hand has freed itself from her grasp and fastens securely across her shoulder blades, pressing her flush with his heaving chest. Her cheek is by his sternum, the heat of his body pooling beneath her, and she finds herself too stunned to respond. She can feel the muscle of his abdomen draw taut as he leans down to glance at her, perhaps to make sure she’s all right, and he then lets his head slump back against the rooftop with a gentle _thump_.

Several moments pass. Satya shivers under chilled prickles of adrenaline, and Junkrat sucks in heavy inhales with an open mouth. Each breath is a full and raspy _hah_ , something desperate, exhausted, relieved, a husky byproduct of exertion, and his ribcage accommodates them with rhythmic swells beneath her head. The pressure of his arm across her back is somehow comforting. It anchors her to him, to the world, to safety and reality and the present. The pads of his fingers have wrangled themselves against her trapezius plane, pressing in with shaking fierceness, and it takes a moment for her to realize that he’s trembling, too.

Satya digs her fingers into his sides and lets the fear of plummeting to the world below wash over her. The warmth of his body soaks in under her cheek and through her fingertips, easing her back from panic’s edge. His heartbeat is deafening in her ear, an intoxicating thrum beneath the weight of her head, and she shuts her eyes to focus on its presence and block out the world.

Everything is fine, she tells herself. Everything is fine. The man in black is gone and Junkrat is here and she is safe and the bridge is most likely irreparable and probably rained shards of hard-light onto the streets below, but that is fine. Everything is fine.

With a shallow, quivering inhale, she lets her body decompress over him. There is an uncontrollable shiver present through her muscles and nerves, but she allows it to pass without scrutiny because she assumes it to be a symptom of shock. And it is, she thinks. This is how he was after the fall. He succumbed to tremors and chills and sat beside her in a cloak of blankets and called her dynamite.

A minute or two passes, and Junkrat’s breathing has resumed its normal pace. His heart has begun to slow from the intensity of recent events, and yet it still retains a hasty beat tucked under her ear. She counts each pulse, something to coax away the anxiety gnawing at her consciousness, and it’s an almost calming harmony wedged into the chaotic mess of a man that lies supine beneath her.

It’s then that she feels the movement of his fingers.

Satya would call it drumming, the sort of tic she’s seen him prone to entertain, but it isn’t. The motion is too slight, too close; nothing lifts from her shoulder blade and nothing comes back down. It also isn’t rubbing or circling or any similar repetitive gestures. Instead, it is more of a delicate increase of pressure, one finger at a time and in varying patterns, gently kneading against skin and muscle in a strange sort of rhythm she finds somehow soothing.

The scent of his skin is against her mouth, musky perspiration and astringent chemicals and the distant undertone reminiscent of earth and roots and stone. She opens one eye to see the cylindrical grenade casings hitched to his harness, their pins hooked and curved and ready for pulling. A streak or two of soot smears across by his shoulder and collarbone, but the remainder of him is warm, close, flush, and although she cannot see his face, she’s sure his temples are slick with sweat from the smell of him. The drone of traffic down below murmurs up around her, but it is eclipsed by the symphony of his body, by the bellows of his breathing and the patterns of his heart and the soft, tender movements at her back.

A sharpness shoves in by her lungs as the whole of her wrings taut.

This should not be happening, she thinks. This is not friends; this is not appropriate or professional and _this should not be happening._

“Junkrat,” she breathes.

“Symmetra,” he replies. It’s a threadbare wisp of air, laden with lingering exertion and a twinge of relief.

“I…” Satya swallows and lets her hands slide from his ribs to the rooftop beneath. “I need to get up.”

“Oh.” As if her shoulder were composed of smouldering coals, Junkrat jolts his hand away and clenches it by his side.

Now very mindful of the position of her hips, Satya raises herself up from over top of him and slides back between his knees. As she eases into a sit a good distance away, she brings her hand to her mouth and lets herself breathe. Her pulse is still awry, still a galloping beast fresh from its prison, and in the wake of Reaper’s assault and slipping at the roof’s edge and Junkrat’s intimate proximity, she is in little position to quell its echoing clamor.

Ahead of her, Junkrat lifts himself with his elbows and a grunt. Legs bowed and eyes squinting under the harshness of the morning sun, he curls forward and brings his metal hand against his chin to coax out the cracks in his neck. Perhaps it is her imagination, but she thinks she can discern a hue of color among his cheekbones.

“Like an engine, innit?”

Satya puzzles over the remark. “What?”

“Just… just keeps going. Like a bloody engine.” Junkrat thumps a fist over his heart and begins to laugh. “Ha, y’know, you make some real dodgy mates when we’re out and about. Second one right there. You fancy blokes in black?”

“Not particularly,” she says, wrinkling her nose.

“Really? You sure? Coulda fooled me. Must be the leather.” He combs his good hand up his widow’s peak and through his hair. Leaning his head back to the sky, Junkrat releases a blustery exhale. “Holy dooley, what a morning.”

He isn’t wrong, she thinks. Things could have gone far better today.

Eyebrows knit and jaw set, Satya glances over his shoulder at the ruined portion of the roof. Part of the concrete base has collapsed downward into the structure below, primarily toward the stairwell which had already suffered ample damage due to Junkrat’s explosives. The shotguns Reaper had wielded are nowhere in sight, and she assumes they must have been destroyed during one of the many explosions. The hard-light bridge toward the other side of the building is no more; the RIP-tire’s raw force must have been enough to shatter it. A series of jagged, cone-like depressions path across the roof, marking where the tire’s trail had taken it.

A part of her wishes to draw close to the edge to check for a sign of Reaper’s body, but she cannot bring herself to stand.

Before she can muster the strength to collect herself, she hears the faint static of someone’s voice buzzing from the communicator at Junkrat’s ear. He cringes at the intrusion, seeming perturbed.

“Oi,” he says, pointing to the earpiece, “how the hell you work this thing? Just press?”

“Just press,” she affirms.

Junkrat nods appreciatively and pushes a metal thumb against the device. “This right? You lot hear me?” A brief pause, and then, “Right, okay, quit yabbering, we’re fine. Just taking a breather. Some wanker ‘bout tossed her off the roof and we had a real time of it. No, she’s good. All in one piece. What? No…? What’re you—wait, look, I don’t know, all right, why don’t you go ask— _oh_. Right. Ha, sit tight. Lemme see.”

He waves at her with two fingers to catch her attention. It shouldn’t, but being flustered seems to suit him, and she finds a warm wave of heat enveloping her neck.

“Nan wants to know why you ain’t been responding,” he says.

“My visor was removed by that man. The communicator was integrated, so I haven’t been able to reply.” She gestures with her gauntlet across to where her visor rests on the rooftop, a good ten feet away. “I have not retrieved it yet, as you can see.”

“She said it got knocked off and she ain’t got it back yet.” Junkrat pauses as he listens to the voice. “I dunno. Wore black. Had some ripper guns. Weird face. Yeah, nah, I didn’t get a good look. Not like I really got the chance.”

“It was a white mask,” she says. “It was… I don’t know how to describe it. It was like bone.”

“She said it was some white mask. Looked like bones or something. I dunno.” Junkrat glances over across where the bridge once stood. “Reckon so. I mean, I don’t wanna be stuck here. Right, look, we’re gonna be over there in a tick, so keep your knickers on and you can ask her when we pop over. No, she’s fine. Serious. I ain’t just saying that, either.” He turns back to Satya and gives her a questioning look. “You’re okay, right?”

Satya combs a lock of hair away from her face and works through a shaky exhale. “I am fine,” she says. “Shaken, but fine. If she is concerned, tell her there is no need.”

“See? Said she’s a bit shook up but she’s fine. Said so herself, so you don’t need to go jumping down her throat. Or mine. Leave me out of it. Right. Yeah. Yeah, soon as she’s good and then we’ll be across. Right. Cheers.” Junkrat releases the communicator with a sigh and rubs at his forehead. “Fucking hell. Cyclops Nan’s got some real spark.”

“What about Morrison?” she asks. “Did he say anything?”

“Mighta. Don’t think he had much room to talk over her, to be honest.” Junkrat shrugs, an amused smile at the corner of his mouth. “Couldn’t hear much else.”

Sucking in a steady breath, Satya lifts herself to her feet. After she is certain she can maintain equilibrium, she makes for her visor and scoops it off the ground. Upon closer inspection, the sheet of hard-light serving as the panel over her eyes does not appear to be damaged. She supposes she should be thankful for how roughly Reaper had handled it. Sliding it over her head, the familiar blue tint settles over her vision and brings a sense of calm with its presence.

Before she can turn to retrieve her photon projector, Junkrat lopes up by her side holds it out for her with an outstretched hand. Satya glances to its white body and metal claws, and then up to his sunkissed shoulders and jutting collarbone and the flecked color over his cheeks. She feels herself flush under the handsome curve of his grin, and she accepts the weapon with haste.

“Thank you,” she says, hooking it to her hip. “I do appreciate it.”

“No worries. Was closer to me, so might as well. Save you a few steps.”

“I was not referring to my weapon,” she murmurs.

“Oh.” Junkrat pauses, mouth half open, and his grip about his reacquired grenade launcher seems to tighten. His amber eyes dart elsewhere on the roof, fixating on the crumbled debris over by the demolished stairwell. “Well, still. Wasn’t a problem or anything. Not about to let some drongo drop you off a roof. Nasty way to go.”

“He was not ‘some drongo,’” she says. “I… I don’t know what he was.”

“Yeah, well, drongo or not, if that RIP-tire didn’t blast him to bits, the dive down sure did.”

“I don’t even know if that is true. He became _smoke_. Nothing I did hurt him. How could something like that be killed?”

“Dunno,” says Junkrat, scratching at his neckline. “Maybe he’s still kicking, then. Reckon he’s a bit banged up at least. Long way down.”

Satya glances toward the edge of the roof where she’d been left to drop. The prickling in her palms and the soles of her feet surfaces once more, and she works down a swallow in attempt to banish the image of Reaper hanging over her with a boot against her hand. Now is the time to focus, she tells herself; there is still a mission to complete and a teammate to find, and there can be no room for distractions.

“Oi, Symmetra. You ready?” Junkrat jerks a thumb toward the building where she had made the previous bridge. “Got them waiting, y’know.”

Satya nods in acknowledgement, but her heart still drums a deafening beat against the ladder of her ribs. Despite the architecture of the hard-light bridge gleaming in her mind’s eye and the wireframes pressed between her fingers, her inner thoughts turn toward the blond disaster at her back. The bridge weaves its way into reality with her guidance, spindles of translucent blue glinting under the morning glare, and all that she can imagine is the cadence of his labored breaths and the feel of her body crushed against his.

Junkrat steps ahead of her, flanked by skyscrapers and traffic and sunheat. The wind threads through his wildfire hair and brings warmth against the side of her face. She traverses the bridge with her nails embedded in her palm, watching the wrought muscle through his back and bronzed shoulders, and it occurs to her that she should have gone first.

There can be no room for distractions, she tells herself.

And yet in her heart of hearts, Satya knows that Junkrat is a distraction she readily enjoys.


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here's some additional tunes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bvf5F7UfQ3c) to accompany the one below because both were heavy inspiration.
> 
> _Seaside_   
>  _Whenever you stroll along with me,_   
>  _I'm merely contemplating what you feel inside_   
>  _Meanwhile, I ask you to be my Clementine_   
>  _You say you will if you could, but you can't_   
>  _I love you madly_   
>  _Let my imagination run away with you gladly_   
>  _A brand new angle, highly commendable_   
>  _[Seaside rendezvous!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I1yzauVUvCo) _

“Oh, come on, now. Don’t be like that. It wasn’t all that bad, really.”

“‘All that bad’? Lena, please, you nearly gave half the team a heart attack. You cannot afford to be so nonchalant about something like this. What if you had suffered grievous injury?”

Mercy hovers over the infirmary beds with a creased brow, mussed hair, and rolled sleeves. Her lab coat has been discarded at her desk across the room, leaving her clad in a pair of plain dark slacks and lavender blouse instead. Satya watches in faint amusement from a parallel bed as Mercy frets over the bruises along Tracer’s bare ribs, guiding the brilliant threads of the caduceus staff’s healing rays by the harness the chronal accelerator.

“Heart attack? That’s your official diagnosis, is it?” Tracer giggles at her own joke, but it is cut short by what Satya assumes to be either sore muscles or the dark marks by her abdomen. “Oh, that smarts,” she groans through gritted teeth. “Never thought being smacked there would hurt so bloody bad. Not like it was anything major, either. Just a couple agents got me unawares before I had the chance to pop on ahead.”

“Well, major or not, you are very lucky there was only bruising. With the details Ana told me, I was expecting bullet wounds or something so severe that her syringes would not be enough. Things could have been far worse with your predicament. Bruised ribs are a piece of cake compared to what could have been.” Mercy tucks a lock of blond hair behind her ear and draws a sigh. “What exactly happened? All I heard is that you ran into a large group of enemy agents. Jack did not see it fit to give me a primer on the mission’s events just yet.”

“What you heard was true,” says Satya, adjusting a pillow by her shoulder. The joint aches as she moves it, and she finds she has to bite at her cheek to keep the pain at bay. “The last we heard from her, she had been scouting ahead and encountered a large group of Talon agents.”

“Yeah, and then this thing went on the blink again.” Tracer gives the accelerator a soft tap with the heel of her palm. “Wouldn’t charge up like it normally does, so I was stuck doing some proper legwork. I always forget how lucky I am to pop back and forth like I do ‘til this decides it feels like taking a holiday. Minus one accelerator, I probably had about… oh, I don’t know, maybe seven coming after me? I don’t think I’ve ever run so fast in my life. Got a couple of them down with the pulse bombs I had, but they still caught up. Must have some sort of military training or something. Only person I’ve seen run like that was Commander Morrison.”

“McCree mentioned something like that just recently,” says Winston. He sits on the floor, opposite from where Mercy is tending to Tracer’s injury, scratching at his chest through a large, rumpled turquoise tee-shirt with the words _Lucheng Interstellar_ splayed in white across its front coupled with the company’s logo. “He said he encountered some Talon agents while he was in the United States and they exhibited familiar techniques. Perhaps this is more widespread than just the few he fought against.”

“That wouldn’t surprise me,” says Tracer. “They’ve always been pretty formidable, but this was something else. I don’t really remember how many streets I got before they grabbed a hold of me. Got a hold my arms and started asking questions, and when I told them I didn’t feel like talking, one of them got to punching instead.” She hisses, whether it’s at the memory or at the tender touch of the staff’s healing rays, Satya cannot be sure. “They grabbed my comm as well, so I couldn’t get back to any of you like I promised. Sorry about that, by the way.”

“There is no need to be sorry,” says Satya, waving a dismissive hand. It feels too strange without the weight of her gauntlet; the hard-light construct has been removed, lying in sectioned parts upon the crisp white sheets of an adjacent mattress. Its absence leaves a degree of tightness coiled in the center of her chest. “Your situation prevented it. I doubt anyone would hold it against you.”

“Well, I still feel bad,” she says. “I meant to get out of there a whole lot faster, but that just didn’t happen. All held up with the accelerator being difficult, and then some of our friendly Talon mates deciding a good hit or two would make me talk. Some of them were talking in Chinese, I think, so I couldn’t really understand what they were on about, but I’m sure they wanted to find the rest of you. Not sure why they took the comm, though. Maybe get some more information by listening in?”

“Ouch. Well, if that’s the case, then we have some redesigning to do.” Winston scratches at his chin with long fingers in thought. “Athena will have to come up with a different configuration for our channel frequencies, and I think I might try to do some testing with some new hardware. We did just receive a very generous contribution from Lucheng Interstellar, after all. I think it would be wise to invest it into a new communication system. I don’t know how possible encryption might be, but it’s always worth a try.” He glances to Satya and offers a smile. “Of course, I’d really appreciate your help with the process, Symmetra. Your prototypes were excellent. I’m sure with a bit more work, we could perfect a model in no time.”

Satya returns the smile. “I would be more than happy to. I already have some ideas that might give the communicator a slimmer shape.”

“Perfect!” says Winston. “I’m sure the rest of the team will have some input, too. It should be an interesting project. I look forward to development.”

“Wait. Hold on a moment.” Mercy pauses and lowers her staff, eyebrows pinched in puzzlement. “We received a contribution from Lucheng Interstellar? When did this happen? I have heard no such thing. Not that anyone seems interested in keeping the medic in the loop.”

“Well, my little mistake more or less helped us recover some stolen tech,” says Tracer. “Turns out I stumbled right upon one of their little hideouts. I don’t know how it was all set up, but from what Mei said, a few of the employees at Lucheng had been doing some dealings under the table, as it were. Nasty stuff. Rogues maybe, or Talon operatives who made their way in. Who knows. Either way, they were selling top notch tech right under the company’s nose. They had a few places set up a few kilometers around the Tower to disassemble it and, well, try to replicate it, I suppose. With all the big name scientists close by, why bother leaving, right? Need more parts or some notes on stuff? Pop right next door and there you go. Seedy and illegal any way you care to slice it.”

Mercy presses a hand to her mouth in concern. “I don’t want to imagine what sort of things they meant to do with it. Their repurposing abilities have proven to be rather… sharp. If Lucheng intended its use for space exploration, I fear to think what it might do under Talon’s influence.”

“This is very true,” says Winston. “And a relief for both the surrounding area and Lucheng itself, I’m sure. Li-Min Zhang met with Mei and Commander Morrison to discuss what happened after the day’s exciting events. Mei mentioned it was a rather lengthy discussion.”

“Indeed, it was a very lengthy discussion,” affirms Satya. “Primary conversation was left to them, of course, but the rest of our team was invited into the conference room as well. Truthfully, I have never seen such a large assembly for something considered so discreet. I assume it was their board of directors, or perhaps a mixture of investors and executives.”

“Both, I imagine,” says Mercy.

“They are an _astronomically_ large company, after all,” says Tracer, flashing a wink.

Satya ignores the pun with a repressed smile. “Introductions were brief. Other than Miss Li-Min Zhang herself and a few other powerful titles, I do not recall everyone involved. Either way, there was a great deal of discussion involved between Mei, Morrison, and Miss Zhang. The meeting lasted for a good two hours, I think. It was quite an experience.”

She would be lying if she had called said experience anything other than what it was: an experience. She is familiar with the world of corporate politics and understands how to navigate its waters, and no session of negotiations, beneficial or otherwise, could qualify as more than necessary tedium. After conducting countless situations of similar magnitude over her career, such things have become a dull affair, especially when she is to play no part.

In truth, she had found both her environment and her immediate company more interesting than the conversation at hand. Her ragged teammates had been ushered into the crisp conference chamber; it was cloaked in stark white walls and a series of tall, ceilingward windows flanking one side of the room. Morrison, Mei, Satya, and the rest sat at one half of the room-length table while Lucheng Interstellar’s employees and president stared back from the opposing side.

The disparity between the patchwork assembly of Overwatch and the clean, uniformed executives had been particularly jarring. Ana had shed herself of the bulk of her dusty beige coat, but her underarmor was not a professional ensemble by any means. Morrison’s mask had been removed and Mei’s parka discarded upon the back of her chair, both retaining a sluggish lethargy in their movements. Tracer had slumped in at Satya’s right, hands pressed against her aching ribs, and Junkrat had lowered himself down into the plush leather chair by her left with a dark scowl. Roadhog did not care to sit, and instead stood at the back of the room with folded arms.

More than once, Satya found herself tapping Junkrat’s thigh to prevent him from falling asleep.

“In the end, it was a mutually beneficial conversation. Well, at least from what I understand. Li-Ming Zheng decided to provide us with a sizeable donation as a token of their gratitude for our involvement.” Winston brings a hand to his mouth in mock whisper. “She’s Lucheng Interstellar’s president and CEO, you know.”

“We know, big guy,” says Tracer. She stifles a giggle behind her hand, the freckles by her nose wrinkled in amusement. “We were there, after all. Went through all of the introductions and the whole kit and caboodle. Took ages.”

“Well, Doctor Ziegler wasn’t there.” Winston peers down at his shirt—a souvenir, courtesy of Tracer’s thoughtfulness. “Neither was I.”

“Perhaps we will require communication with them in the future,” says Mercy, resuming the staff’s attentive touch along Tracer’s ribs. “I’m sure no one will take issue with you acting as our envoy in any Lucheng negotiations.”

“I’d really appreciate that.” He scratches at the fur on his head, his shoulders hunched and body curled as if he were bashful. “Maybe we could take a trip there sometime. You know, without all of the Talon business.”

“I don’t see why not. Probably be best after everything settles, though. I think we caused a bit of a fuss while we were there.” Tracer fiddles with the strap of her accelerator. “That, and after this thing decides to stop being such a bloody pain. Can’t imagine a worse time for it to act up, if I’m honest. I hate to think what could’ve happened if it hadn’t recharged when it did.”

“I think I might need to have another look at it,” says Winston. “That makes this the fourth or fifth time in the past few months. You’re right, though: if it happens to stall again at some other critical moment, it could mean something terrible. I didn’t think too much of its malfunction at Numbani, but it could have caused a real issue here, especially alone. I think we should put aside some time so I can do some diagnostics and try to figure out what’s going on. I might be able to do a few tweaks.”

“Might be a good idea, I suppose,” she admits. “I feel like it’s been on the blink more often than not. A tweak or two might do it some good. You know, I can’t really pop forward as often as I used to. Maybe something needs to be replaced?”

“That might be possible,” muses Winston, “although we won’t be able to tell unless I can perform some tests. It’s been quite a while, though. It wouldn’t surprise me if that were the case.”

As Mercy withdraws from Tracer’s side, Satya eyes the glowing construct of the accelerator from her bed. The vicious ache of exertion clenches through her left shoulder and down her arm, and to better accommodate Mercy’s questioning fingers and the caduceus staff’s restorative energies, she shifts and brings a palm to the soreness that crosses her belly and tries to route her focus to Tracer’s predicament instead.

“How long has it been since repairs or maintenance were made?” she asks.

“Good question. Half a year or so, I think?” Tracer shrugs, rubbing at the place where bruises had colored her ribs with the heel of her palm. “Something like that. Don’t remember the exact date.”

“Five months and fourteen days.” Winston pushes his glasses further up his nose with an index finger and manages a toothy grin. “It was shortly after I issued the recall. When Lena arrived here, I did some initial recalibrating in hopes that it would give her a bit more control over her movements, but it looks like that is starting to cause some serious negative effects. I believe I will have to make some more adjustments. Science isn’t science without some trial and error, after all.”

“It is quite impressive,” says Satya. She begins to knead at where she had suffered Reaper’s absorbed gunshot in attempt to ease the pain, but it does not seem to help. The ache in her shoulder is receding with Mercy’s help, and the warmth that massages at the joint has brought a sense of peace with its presence. “Truth be told, I have never seen anything of its like before. Being able to manipulate something so complex is astounding. It is truly a remarkable piece of technology.”

“Well, thanks!” Winston puffs his chest in pride. “The idea was mine, you know. I spent a great deal of time on its design. Lots of late nights and early mornings during its development. Others at Overwatch had exhausted their efforts, so I thought I would give it a try. There were some failed attempts, of course, trial and error, but I was finally able to create a solution that would help counteract her condition.”

“Up, please.” Mercy taps at the back of Satya’s hand. “I need to get beneath.”

Satya does as she is told. “I’m sorry, I’m unfamiliar. ‘Condition’? I just assumed it was special equipment made for your use.”

“Well, it is. The whole thing was a bit of an accident,” says Tracer. “Happened a good while back. You ever heard of the Slipstream?”

Satya wracks her memory for the name. It sounds familiar, like something she may have come across in passing while browsing news sites, but she cannot pin an exact connotation to it. “I might have at one point, although I don’t recall much about it.”

“Well, to keep things short, the Slipstream was a fast, sleek, and spiffy ship with the ability to teleport. Sounds good, right? Brilliant concept. Brilliant. Teleporting would have really given us the advantage. Or anyone, really. Just an absolutely massive innovation. And out of everyone else, Overwatch chose _me_ to give it a test run. I was… well, I was beyond excited, if I’m honest. You don’t really go about thinking this big incredible organization will pick you up and sweep you off to where their prototype ships are, you know? But they did. It was my chance to really show off and make a name for myself. That… wasn’t what happened, though.”

Parting a hand through her mousy hair, Tracer purses her lips and lowers her stare to the sheets. There is a latent fierceness in the blue of her eyes, cool and distant, as if she were steeped in whorls of old memories.

“You always get the jitters on your first flight,” she says, her brow knitting together. “It’s just what happens. It’s normal. And I just thought, you know, it’s Overwatch. This is their one of their big projects. It’s going to be a huge success, just like everything else. But after I performed all of the primary checks and protocols and took off, the transportation matrix in the Slipstream… well, it went on the blink. Malfunctioned. The whole aircraft disappeared, and so did I.”

“Disappeared?” Satya coaxes her fingers over one another in thought as the energies from the staff pull out the soreness soaked through her abdominal muscles. “In what context, if I might ask? Do you mean—”

“I mean just that,” says Tracer. “Disappeared. Completely. One moment I was soaring over the watchpoint, the next I was gone. Blink of an eye and all that.”

Satya taps her knuckles. “It would be possible. Vishkar’s approach to teleportation was not without its faults. I wonder where you might have reappeared. Did you remember anything? What exactly happened?”

“I don’t really know, if I’m honest,” she says. “It was all so… so _strange_. Sort of felt like I was in this never ending dream. I remember some things, but they’re not right. Or maybe they are. I’m not really sure. You know those odd moments where you feel like you’ve done something before? Déjà vu? I get those an awful lot.”

“Temporal anomalies,” offers Winston. He places a large paw over Tracer’s calf in what Satya assumes to be comfort. “After a fruitless investigation of the entire area around the Slipstream’s disappearance, everyone presumed Lena dead. She wasn’t, of course. She was very much alive; she just wasn’t here. I found her outside my lab several months later in a severe state. Flickering in and out of the present, fading to nothing for hours until her body materialized back into existence. It was an extremely difficult case to work with. I’d never seen anything like it.”

“He beat it, though. Came up with this thing and strapped me back down in the time I’m supposed to be.” With a grin, she pats the back of Winston’s hand. “You’re brilliant, big guy. I’d say that deserves you _two_ trips to Lucheng Interstellar. And maybe a jar of peanut butter as well.”

“I’d take it in a heartbeat,” says Winston. “You’re right, though. It’s probably best that we wait for a while before revisiting Lijiang. I’m sure Lucheng has a lot of cleanup to do, as well as the surrounding areas from how Miss Amari made it seem.”

Tracer thumbs at her chin. “Well, Lijiang might be out of the question, but I reckon the beach is still fair game. I mean, we _are_ in Gibraltar, after all. Whole place is a beach! We could all use a little holiday after all we’ve been through over the past several weeks. Rescuing Mei, going after little Talon hideaways, getting Commander Morrison and Miss Amari. I’d say that’s worth an afternoon on the sand, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh, I couldn’t agree more. I think it’s a fabulous idea.” Mercy lifts her staff and clicks it against the floor, leaning against it with a broad smile. “I _knew_ there was a reason I brought my swimsuit along. It was a last minute decision, honestly. I’d assumed there might be one afternoon it might prove useful.”

“I wish I’d brought mine,” says Tracer. “Not exactly like I’m in the position to go about deep sea diving, anyway. Still, there’s no point in going to Gibraltar if you’re not going to have a good swim while you’re there, is there?”

Winston drums his fingers on the edge of Tracer’s bed. “I might have an old pair of swimmers stashed around the lab somewhere,” he says. “They might be a bit small, though.”

“Pff, small. That’s a measly excuse and you know it.” She props her elbows on her thighs and rests her chin upon her palms. “C’mon, Winston. You know some good old rest and relaxation would do us all some good. It’s a brilliant idea. If you really think about it, there’s no reason to say no.” Tracer gives Satya an encouraging glance. “Isn’t that right, Symmetra? You’re with us on this, aren’t you?”

The thought is far too tempting—and not to mention something she has thought about since walking with Junkrat down Gibraltar’s promenade. Soaking in warm sun and cooling off in the ocean shallows would be divine.

“While it would be well deserved,” she admits, “unfortunately, I did not anticipate the need for swimwear. I didn’t bring anything remotely appropriate for such activities.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem. I mean, you’ve seen where we are, haven’t you? We can just pop down to one of the little tourist shops and grab you one. Shouldn’t be too bad. Nice and quick. I’m sure they’ve got all sorts of nice colors as well since summer’s in full swing.” Tracer gives a wink. “I wouldn’t worry. We’ll find you something good, love. Promise!”

“I’m sure Mei would want to come along, too,” says Mercy. “She only brought along a handful of clothes, so I doubt she has anything for the beach among her belongings. It would be a good opportunity to purchase a few things for her, at the very least.”

“Blimey, that’s _right_ ,” says Tracer, snapping a thumb and forefinger in realization. “You know, I didn’t even think about that. She probably lost a bunch of her stuff with that ship when it went down. I know she’s been to town at least once to grab a few things, but I don’t think she bothered to get swimmers or anything like that.”

“Lena, are you sure you will be all right?” Winston lifts himself from the floor and scoots closer to the bed. Although her ribs seem to be free of the bruising that once purpled down her sides, a degree of concern etches into the worry lines of his features. “I know your injury was not severe, but it still seemed substantial. I am not a doctor, of course, but wouldn’t it be better to wait?”

Mercy rounds to Winston’s side of the bed and gives his shoulder a reassuring pat. “She will be just fine, Winston. There is no cause for worry. It may take twenty to thirty minutes for everything to fully heal up as it should, but if I am not mistaken, it will take us approximately that long to reach town. Besides, I think some time spent relaxing on the beach will do just as much good as bedrest. Well, at least in this situation. That was not an invitation to ignore bedrest. I don’t want to hear any one of you quoting that at me in the future. Is that understood?”

“You got it, Doc,” says Tracer, working two fingers in salute.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” says Winston.

“I won’t say a word,” says Satya.

“Good. I can promise I will remember that.” Mercy chuckles as she brings her staff over toward the center tables. “All right. Now that that’s settled, how shall we go about this? I’m certain the others will want to join, too. Well, I cannot predict Jack’s decision, of course, but I have a good feeling the rest of the team may want in on our little plans. I know Jesse and Reinhardt would at the very least.”

“Oh, I’m sure Commander Morrison will come around. We did just successfully take down an operation conducted by Talon, after all. He should be a bit more lenient. And even if he does want to stay here, well, I’m not about to stop him.” Winston clears his throat behind a fist and glances up toward the ceiling. “Athena, are you there?”

“Yes, Winston.” The synthetic voice is cool, calm, and of a feminine timbre. Its strength permeates the room despite a lack of physical presence. “Is there something I can assist you with?”

“I’d like to make an outpost-wide announcement, please,” he says. “It has been decided that instead of a celebratory dinner, the team will take a celebratory outing to the beach for the remainder of the afternoon. Everyone needs to grab whatever swim gear they have and head toward the hangar in twenty minutes.”

“Understood,” says Athena. “All personnel are to report to the hangar in twenty minutes with all necessary swimming items. This will replace this evening’s celebratory meal. I will broadcast your instructions over the outpost comm network in sixty seconds and alert Torbjörn that the defenses will need to be reactivated.”

“Thank you, Athena. It’s appreciated.”

“Of course, Winston. It is my pleasure.”

Winston bares his canines in a wide grin. “Well, I think that takes care of that. Everyone will know what the plan is, and if they are so inclined, they will meet us all in the hangar. I suppose we’ll have to start getting our things together, won’t we?”

“You’re absolutely brilliant, big guy. Oh, this’ll be great!” Tracer reaches out to ruffle the fur on his head, scritching at his scalp with orange painted nails. “I haven’t been to the beach in _ages_. What a way to unwind! You know, I’ve heard the Mediterranean is right amazing this time of year. Nice water, proper weather, and I’m sure there are a few spots that aren’t so crowded. Oh, oh, and that reminds me—we ought to grab some other things while we’re down at the shops! A parasol or two, maybe some sunscreen? Don’t know about you guys, but I burn awful easy. London isn’t exactly the sunniest place in the world.”

“It is definitely a good idea,” agrees Mercy. She tugs off her glasses with a thin index finger before folding their ends and heading toward the sleek frame of her desk in the far left corner. “We could use our supply of towels here for any sunbathing and drying off, but somehow I think we would be extremely lacking when it comes to sunscreen or other supplies. I suppose we could always have a quick look down in the lockers, but I have a feeling we will find more dust than anything else.”

“And I have a feeling you may be right,” says Winston. “I don’t think any of the lockers have been touched since the Petras Act went into effect. There must be a few years’ worth of dust sitting in there.”

“A little more than a few years,” says Mercy, stifling a laugh.

As Athena’s voice resounds over the intercom with Winston’s chosen message, Satya scoots herself off of the infirmary bed with a hand pressed to her stomach. Much to her relief, the pain centered in the joint of her shoulder and stitched across her abdomen has lessened considerably. There are slight twinges that linger when she stretches out her arm to work at the muscle, but it is still a great improvement. Ana’s various elixirs had only managed to alleviate some of the ache on the homeward flight to Gibraltar, and even then, she had spent most of the trip strapped into one of the main cabin’s seats with sleep pawing at the corners of her eyes.

Her gaze drifts to the pieces of her hard-light gauntlet spread across the ivory sheets to her left. Its weight and presence upon her arm is missed, but she knows it would be a poor decision to bring it with her. If she stows it back in its case and leaves it tucked inside her desk, she will be bereft of half her arsenal and without an effective way to occupy anxieties. Tracing its joints, fingers, crystal, and the gripped material of its palm has become a primary staple, and the thought of leaving the premises without it drops threads of discomfort between her lungs.

Still, she reasons, risking its wellbeing would be far worse than a few hours with a bare arm. If the gauntlet were to somehow suffer damage due to her carelessness, it would ultimately result in a return trip to Utopaea to seek out repairs from Vishkar’s technicians. She does not care to endure the shame that would accompany such a visit, and so she steels herself and begins to gather its sections for reapplication until she can reach its appropriate case in the barracks.

When she finishes snapping the last few into place, she notes that Tracer has busied herself with shuffling a shirt back over her head. It is more of a task than Satya would have anticipated with the clipped harness of her accelerator, which appears to have been undone with Winston’s assistance. He holds the front and back of the device with care, making sure to keep it within what she assumes to be a minimum distance as Tracer pops her head through a plain pink singlet and tugs it down her ribs. The harness is then refastened, Winston’s large fingers tightening the straps as necessary.

“Nice and snug?” he asks.

“Yup, I think that should do it. Feels all right to me.” She tucks a finger beneath a lower strap to test its fit. “Not too loose. Not too tight, either. Should be just fine. Thanks!”

“Not a problem,” he replies. “I’m just glad you’re doing well. You should take Doctor Ziegler’s advice to heart, you know. You really should be more careful out there.”

“Hey, that’s not fair. I’m plenty careful.” Tracer scrunches her nose in mock hurt. “Just ran into a few complications this time around, that’s all. Nothing too serious. I’m sure it’ll all clear right up once you have a look. You really think another recalibration will fix it?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure just yet. That is the most likely solution, but some routine diagnostics should let us know whether more effort is required.”

“Well, maybe we’ll give it a go tomorrow. I’m sure there will be some time before Commander Morrison wants us all to cram into that little room and go over everything. Even if we can’t get it finished, we could at least make some progress.”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” says Winston. “Sometime after breakfast?”

“You got it,” she replies. “I’ll pop by with some tea and maybe we can get this thing working proper again.”

Winston nods in agreement before lifting himself to his feet. He pads across the infirmary on his knuckles with heavy steps, passing by Satya with a brief acknowledgment in her direction. When he draws up to the exit, he waves a paw at Mercy by her desk to snag her attention.

“I have some searching to do in the lab,” he says, “so I’ll be down to the hangar once I’m finished. I think we’ll be able to take the old jeep down if I can find the keys. It only fits about six, if I remember right, so we might have to take two trips back and forth. Still, better than hiking all the way down.” He gives both Tracer and Satya a grin before stepping out. “See you three in twenty!”

Satya weaves between the infirmary beds in Winston’s footsteps, rotating her left shoulder in its socket in attempt to work out the lingering pain etched through muscle and cartilage. She knows it will take a short while for the rest of it to fully retreat, but it does not make it any less of a nuisance. Perhaps the cool water and the warm sun will ease the rest of the ache as it recedes.

“Oi, you off to the hangar already?” Tracer slides off her mattress with a hop and slips her feet into the pair of the shoes that had been left from her jumpsuit.

“I will be by shortly,” she says, taking pause by the door. “I need to stop by the rooms and gather a few things first. If we are to stop by one of the shops at the promenade, it would be best to have some means of payment.”

“Wait for me!” Tracer blinks forward past the crisp beds and tables arrayed with varying instruments to reappear at Satya’s side. “I’ve got a couple things to nab as well. Change of clothes and all that. Don’t mind a bit of company, do you? Oh. I probably should have asked that first, now that I think about it. Sorry. Still a little worked up, if I’m honest.”

“I do not mind the company at all,” says Satya. She places the crystal of her palm against the crack in the infirmary door and pushes, pressing it open for Tracer to follow through. “I will admit, it is good to see you are feeling better. Everyone was very worried when you did not respond over the comm line. I feared something terrible had happened and you had suffered an altercation with enemy agents.”

“Well, you’re not wrong about that. It was an altercation, more or less. Nothing I can’t handle, though. Been through quite a bit worse, if you think about it.” She pats the case of the accelerator with her hand, implying what Satya assumes is he past encounter with the Slipstream and its unfortunate disappearance. “And same goes for you, you know. Definitely glad you’re all right. Miss Amari told me what happened on that roof when you and Junkrat were trying to secure a spot to bring everybody in. Just… mad, really. A man in black with some sort of mask? I mean, I suppose that’s not too different than what we’ve seen with our friendly Talon mates. They’ve got some odd uniforms. But bloody hell, he sounded _mental_. Trying to shove you off a roof? I can’t even imagine.”

“He tried to shoot me, first,” says Satya. The stark visage of Reaper’s face billows out from the blackness of her mind’s eye, pitch smoke pouring from slit eye sockets, and the centers of her palms itch with the familiar buried burn that stitched in with her bones when she hung off the building’s edge. “When that was unsuccessful, he resorted to the roof instead. It was not a pleasant experience.”

Tracer succumbs to a shiver as they pass through the metal arches of the main corridor. “Oh, I do not envy you at all. That must’ve been awful. I don’t have much problem with heights, but even ten stories up above the city looking down is enough to give me the jitters. I don’t want to think about what might’ve happened if nobody noticed what was going on. It’s a real good thing everything went the way it did.”

“It is,” says Satya. “I firmly believe I would not be here if it were not for Junkrat’s intervention. Somehow, I could not harm that man. I don’t know what he was or how it was possible to avoid my attacks, but everything I tried was… useless. His body was not normal.”

“Smoke?” prompts Tracer.

“Smoke,” she affirms. “It was as if his internal components changed. I do not understand how such a thing could be possible. He simply became something else. Something my weapon could not touch. Physical attacks did not harm him in any way. Whatever he was, it was not human.”

“Now that _really_ gives me the jitters,” says Tracer. “It’s like something right out of a ghost story, isn’t it? All creepy and shapeshifting. Black smoke and all that. It sounds awful familiar to the bloke Winston and I fought back at Numbani when Talon came after Doomfist. Did the same sort of thing, you know, all smoky and with a mask and guns he just pulls out of nowhere. Got away, though. But he got launched off the roof this time, didn’t he? Exploded, even. I mean, the bomber got rid of him. That’s ten floors down. I don’t know the exact distance, but I don’t think you could survive after a fall like that.”

“That is what I would like to believe.” Satya folds her right hand over the white metal of her gauntlet, nails tracing the joints of her fingers. “However, I find it very difficult to do so. If it took such a monumental effort to injure him, I believe an even greater effort would be needed to kill him. Something like that does not die so easily. Something like that does not die from an explosion or falling from a building. As much as I would like to believe he did not survive, intuition tells me otherwise.”

Tracer releases a soft exhale. “Well. Guess we’d better keep an eye out for him, then, huh?”

“I think that would be wise,” she replies, and she hopes her fears are unfounded.

The remainder of the walk to the barracks is spent in silence. The rhythms of her steps coupled with Tracer’s echo among the hollowed area of corridor carved into the bulk of the Rock. Cool light from the overhead halogens souses the gleaming metal walkway and the splintering rooms, each hidden away by the broad faces of sliding doors. The hall itself squares into a turn, which leads past the open mouth to the washrooms and toward the first half of the barracks, and Satya continues forward with purpose.

When she reaches the primary common area, Tracer gives a brief wave before darting toward the direction of her designated space in a shock of blue. Satya follows further behind, passing by the mussed trappings of Tracer’s room between the mazed walls, and she heads back toward her own alcove tucked toward the other side of the barracks. The areas of Mercy, Mei, and Ana slip by in her peripheral, all sparse and bare save for clusters of essentials and pieces of their respective equipment housed in corners and across pallid bedspreads.

As Satya hooks a turn and draws close to her room, she brings her fingers to her left bicep and begins to unlatch the start of her hard-light gauntlet. Her polished nails pry up underneath panels with great care, sifting them apart from the graphite grip that coats her arm beneath the metal. When she steps past the threshold and reaches the smooth surface of her desk, she unclips the rest with the haste of practiced muscle memory. She removes the remainder of the construct section by section, the chill of the room flushing prickles down her bare arm, and stashes each piece within the safety of its designated case.

Her thumbs slide over the latches to snap them closed, and in spite of herself, a twinge scratching at the back of her mind reminds her just how vulnerable she might be without its presence. The thought of Talon returning to Gibraltar to pursue her down sunsoaked streets emerges amongst her concerns: the stark heat bakes against her back and down her neck and slicks sweat down her temples, the rhythmic movements of Junkrat scuffing at her side and McCree’s crimson serape swirling ahead as the lead; she lacks her weapon, but she can still create, she can still fight, she can still be _useful_ , and she works the geometry of a blade upon her open palm.

Satya bites into the side of her cheek. Folding the imagery into wafer-thin slips, she stows them among black velvet and tucks them away into a drawer where they will pose little threat. She refuses to allow something so negligible to damper her excitement for what promises to be a relaxing outing. This is the sort of thing she has been needing, she thinks; this will let her unwind, decompress, and will let the tension unspool from her body. Spending an afternoon in the sunshine with soft seafoam and comforting waves will do her a world of good, and she has no doubt it will do the same for the others as well.  

Gathering her belongings is a hasty process. Her personal spending card is collected along with her wallet, the corporate one left behind in a small drawer in her nightstand. The powdered blue purse hung upon her wardrobe door is retrieved shortly afterward and placed upon the pristine visage of her bed. She peels off the remnants of her Vishkar uniform in favor of a white quarter sleeve blouse and the folds of a flowing sapphire skirt. A hair tie is plucked from her bedside table and knotted about the ebon thickness of her hair, forming a loose tail down her neck. Slipping into her heeled ivory sandals, she lifts the bag’s strap over her shoulder and starts out to meet Tracer, but the smiling shells by her bedside make her take pause.

Against her better judgment, she takes the leftmost one between her thumb and forefinger and lifts it toward the light. While its spherical body is reminiscent of the slightly larger grenades he uses to fill his launcher, it is small, tight, compact enough to fit among the lifelines of her palm or to be enclosed within a fist. It is also not the most nondescript of items; its stark red shell draws the eye, and the painted smile upon its hull is no better. The distinct brushstrokes of Junkrat’s work show through the streaks of white paint, she notes, the bristles of the miniature brush he’d used visible upon the smile’s broad grin and ‘x’-marked eyes.

Satya smooths the pad of her left thumb over the cherry red surface of the shell. She traces the curve of it grin, once, twice, thrice over, allowing the disparate textures to press up against her fingerprint. She then turns it about in her hand, rolling it to inspect the seam of the two welded halves, and it occurs to her once again that the amount of work he puts into his creations is truly staggering. Between the sets of RIP-tires he’s built and the countless types of mines he has cobbled together from pale casings and coiled wires and concoctions of chemicals, there can be no question as to how much he loves his craft.

She continues to brush her fingers over its cool surface, taking the opportunity to test varying pressures and to feel each part of the shell against her skin. While the curves and textures are different, they are not jarring, and the ability to roll it between her fingers like one would a marble is an alluring aspect. In fact, it’s _comforting_ , she realizes. It sings a strangeness within her as the item is not hers and would never be considered as hers, and yet it is something close, something familiar, and something to occupy her idle tendencies.

It shouldn’t, it really shouldn’t, but the thought of bringing it with her begins to scratch at the back of her mind.

Satya gives the grinning shell between her fingers a meaningful look. It is small, simplistic, crude, and very much something that might be found amongst Junkrat’s impressive slew of inventory. She has seen him entertain similar casings before on many an occasion, just as she is now, and she occurs to her that his own unique tics must drive him to create such things to keep himself busy. If not for his notebook, she assumes he would have something on his person at all times.

Absently, she tries to recall when he had given her the first shell. It was aboard the ORCA, she knows that for certain, but she cannot remember what she had been doing at the time. She remembers his notebook, his pencil, the scratchy designs he’d been scribbling at among the worn pages, and the continuous bob of his knee, but nothing else. Had he seen her tracing at her gauntlet? Had he seen her adjusting her dress or nodding her head?

Is this what its purpose had been all along?

“If you tell your creator any of this,” she says, eyeing the empty casing with sharp stoicism, “I am going to throw you away.”

The shell says nothing. It stares and smiles and shines under the outer hall lights, and silent laughter seems to swell from between its teeth.

“Ridiculous,” she mutters.

With a crinkled nose, Satya promptly drops it into her purse and takes her leave.

Tracer waits for her just outside the barracks, clad in sandals, white shorts, and the same pink singlet. A pair of sunglasses sits amongst her mussed hair, and it occurs to Satya that she ought to invest in a pair as well. While light in itself does not usually bother her, she is certain the sand will make things too bright for her liking.

Tracer salutes in salutation and resituates her own thin bag across her shoulder and accelerator. “Hey, that’s some sharp stuff you got,” she says, nodding at Satya’s skirt. “Real keen on the color there. Looks good!”

“Thank you,” says Satya, although the compliment feels strange to hear.

“So, got what you need? You all set to head off to the hangar?”

“For the time being,” says Satya. “I just hope we will be able to find appropriate accommodations in town.”

“Oh, you’ve got nothing to worry about. This is one of the prime tourist areas in the region. They’d be mad not to have places with trunks and costumes and all that. Would be sort of silly if they didn’t. Miss out on a whole lot of money, I’d wager.” Tracer hops forward and sets off down the corridor back the way they’d come. “Besides, wouldn’t be much of a beach town without them, you know? Need something for all sorts of unprepared tourists like us. Well, not really tourists. Live in tourists. At least for the time being.”

“I suppose that’s true,” says Satya. “It might be enjoyable to take another trip or two down before summer ends. This has been the first time I have been to a beach in quite a while.”

“I know I’d be all for it,” says Tracer. “Everybody gets so wrapped up in everything they forget to relax sometimes. I know we’ve got a lot to worry about, but it’s just us. Can’t always be on edge, you know. Gets real tiring after a while. I mean, I lived it. Sometimes you’ve got to take a bit of time for yourself. Heal up, right? Doctor Ziegler’s got all the physical stuff down pat, but sometimes stuff upstairs gets a little shaky.”

Tracer isn’t wrong, she supposes. Without a proper way to destress, there is little hope to maintain one’s performance and composure. While Satya tends to pour herself into her work as a suitable alternative, there are times where focusing on sketching blueprints and brainstorming for new models are not an effective escape. When she had more privacy in her quarters at Vishkar, she would resort to exercising Bharatanatyam poses and movements to better ease her mind and focus her concentration. Here, there is neither the room nor the privacy.

“Hey. You’re not really going to leave, are you?”

It takes a moment for Satya to realize she is being spoken to. “Pardon?”

“Well, you said you were going to leave,” says Tracer. “I mean, if you are, not like we can stop you or anything. It’s your choice. But I don’t think the rest would be too happy about it. Sure, it’s only been a short little while, but I think you’re a brilliant addition to the team. You’ve got some fantastic skills, and if I’m honest, I’ve got a feeling Winston was looking to extend the little agreement we’ve got going with your company.”

“They would not allow it,” she says.

And it’s true: they wouldn’t. Her own diligence with climbing the corporate ladder and accruing massive amounts of holiday time over the years has proven itself to be a yearlong sabbatical. Her superiors made it quite clear upon her departure that they would expect her back at seven o’clock sharp the Monday of her return.

Sanjay would laugh at her.

“You sure about that?” asks Tracer. “You’d know better than I would, of course, but are you positive? They seemed like a nice lot. They were quite accommodating as well. And I was serious about moonlighting, you know. I’m sure the rest of the team would love it if you’d come back a few times and work with us.”

So would I, she doesn’t say.

They would not dare let me go again, she doesn’t say.

“I might,” she says instead.

“Ha, now _that’s_ the spirit!” says Tracer. “Really, though, I think it’d be good. I don’t know how things might be by then—you know, world wise and all—but I’ll bet everyone would be real glad to have you back. I know I would.”

Satya has to focus to prevent herself from stopping mid-step. “You would?”

“Well, yeah. Of course I would!” She gives Satya gentle tap on the arm with the back of her hand. “Not only can you do all sorts of brilliant stuff, I think you’re a fantastic agent. Nice, brave, clever— _real_ bloody clever. You got a leg up on most of us, honestly. Never seen anybody tackle problems like you. You got your own way of doing things, and I think it’s amazing.” Tracer grins, her freckled nose scrunched in laughter. “No wonder they want you back. I don’t blame them one bit!”

Perhaps it is due to the particular environment Vishkar had cultivated amongst its employees, dividing companionships and offering praise only when deeds merited it, but such compliments feel too foreign, too strange, and too out of place to hear from another person. She finds herself pressing her nails into her palm with a tightness wedged between her lungs, and she has to consciously order herself to lessen the pressure.

“Thank you,” she says, “although I feel you are being too generous.”

“Not being generous at all,” says Tracer. “Just being honest. It’s the truth, you know. And I’ll bet anything the rest of the team thinks the same way.”

“It’s appreciated,” she says, because she does not know what else to say.

When Satya reaches the hangar’s entrance, she finds that Mei, Ana, McCree, Mercy, Roadhog, and Junkrat are already present. They have clustered in a circle down beneath the ORCA’s suspended form, tucked between large steel cases and other assorted units utilized for storage. Roadhog’s motorcycle has been parked by the workbench he seems to have claimed as his space off to the right, packs of what appear to be some kind of gear strapped to its back. While part of her speculates what that might include, she decides it is best if she doesn’t know.

Tracer zips ahead of her in an azure blink and waves salutations to the others before being promptly enveloped by McCree in a scolding hug. Satya thinks she can hear his drawling admonishments concerning her injuries amongst the chatter, something about recklessness, perhaps, but she can’t quite tell. After a few words of protest and with Ana’s help (“You have absolutely no room to talk of recklessness, Jesse McCree!”), and he releases his captive with a sheepish grin.

As she draws closer to the group, it becomes apparent that almost everyone has taken the time to clothe themselves in casual attire despite the short notice of Winston’s message. Mei and Mercy both share in sporting light-colored blouses and shorts, where Ana is clad in a long and flowing sundress patterned in shapes of blue and white. With what looks to be a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, McCree has somehow managed to part with his trusty hat and fiddles with the sleeve of his tee-shirt where it has caught in the bend of his prosthesis. Roadhog stands a short distance away, his gloves, shoes, and other spiky adornments thankfully missing, although where he managed to acquire a pair of Hawaiian-print shorts, Satya hasn’t the slightest idea.

Junkrat is closer to the circle than his massive bodyguard, engaged in conversation with Mercy. Although her proximity does not allow minute details, it seems as though he’d taken the time to scrub his face since their return from Lijiang. His set of patched camouflage shorts are still cinched about his hips, and even though she can’t discern every detail from her vantage point, she recognizes the sheath with the glint of her crafted knife strapped to the back of his belt. She does not know why he chose the scraggly red singlet he wore to the scrap run or why he decided that leaving the compound now should constitute a shirt when he seemed quite content without during their mission, but she supposes whatever code for clothing he has in place, she should not question it. She only wishes she were not reminded of The Incident by its color alone.

Before Satya can reach the others, the sound of heavy footsteps thumping upon the metal floor behind her catches her attention. Pausing mid-stride to peer over her shoulder, Winston meets her gaze with a grin as he pads across the length of the hangar. Still wearing his Lucheng Interstellar shirt with pride, a small backpack has been shuffled over his shoulders and a particularly large sunhat has been settled over his head. He seems to hold something in one paw—the vehicle’s key, she assumes—and passes her by with excitement lacing his gait.

“Winston, dear,” calls Ana, beckoning with a curled finger, “I almost thought Athena was joking when I heard the message. Not that I would refuse a little outing, mind you. What prompted this?”

“The need for some proper downtime,” says Tracer. “Big guy felt a bit left out, so I might’ve convinced him the beach was a good idea.”

“Well, it certainly isn’t a bad idea,” says Winston. He uncurls his fingers to reveal a small fob hooked on a keyring and presents it for the group to see. “So, here’s the plan. The jeep we have here can hold about five or six of us. I saw Reinhardt and Torbjörn on the way here, and I think both Genji and Zenyatta plan on attending as well, so we will have to take two separate trips. I didn’t see Commander Morrison, though.”

“Oh, don’t you worry. Jack will be along soon,” says Ana. “He was with me at the old shooting range when the announcement went out. He said he had a few last things to take care of before heading to the hangar. If I didn’t know any better, I would think he seemed almost _interested_ at the prospect of an afternoon off.”

“Now, ain’t that something,” says McCree, and Ana swats at his bag with a smirk.

As Winston paws away to secure the jeep for the remainder of the group, the sensation of someone drawing close on her peripheral prickles at the back of Satya’s neck. Employing a tighter grip upon the strap of her purse, she glances to her right to see Junkrat stepping close with Roadhog plodding along just at his back. There is a streak of soot by his ear that he’d missed, and she has to resist the urge to reach into her bag and snatch a tissue to dab it clean.

“Now _this_ is my kinda deal,” he says, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “Sand and sunshine and lollies! I can’t even remember the last time I been to the beach. Was after Sydney sometime, I remember that. Went up to Queensland. Year, maybe. Two?” He cranes his neck to look over his shoulder at Roadhog with an inquisitive crease through his forehead. “Oi, Roadie, weren’t it two?”

Roadhog grunts behind the bulk of his mask and holds up a single finger in reply.

“One, then. Right, yeah, one. Sounds right. Least I think so.” He gives a shrug before turning back toward Satya. “Eh, whichever. Don’t matter, really. Been a while, either way. Should be nice to have a good lie down. Maybe dip a couple toes in. You ever been?”

“I have, yes. A few times, in fact. The visits were a courtesy of Vishkar’s clientele. They were not extensive stays by any means, but I enjoyed myself nonetheless.” A moment passes, and she then manages to parse through the rest of his words. “Wait a moment. I thought you said you couldn’t… you know. Swim.”

“Sink like a stone,” he affirms, flexing his prosthetic arm for emphasis. “Not too keen on getting Ol’ Faithful and Mach all full of rust, neither. You know how hard it is to come by them little neuroboards? Good ones, right, not them two-bit dodgy makes you see in the big time shops that get all jittery and don’t read nothing right after a while.” Junkrat traces the front of his teeth with his tongue, gliding past twin specs of gold. He smooths the rough pads of his fingers alongside the orange metal, about halfway down past where the remainder of the limb would be. “It’s somewhere here. Can’t remember exactly where without cracking it open, but should be about here. Had one hell of a time getting a hold of it. Ain’t about to line meself up to find another, either. Nasty work.”

Satya frowns, watching his mechanical fingers maneuver back and forth as if to test their agility. Although they are crude in construction, she must admit that they do their job quite well. The sturdiness and strength of the prosthesis itself is remarkable; she would not have believed it capable of such endurance if it had not supported her entire weight and allowed him to haul her up onto a rooftop. Regardless of the neuroboard within it, its design is efficient if not a touch primitive. She will not withhold credit—Junkrat is incredibly intelligent when it comes to mechanics, evidenced by both prosthetics and his slew of explosive inventory—and she is absently reminded of the small grenade shell resting at the bottom of her purse.

“Still, that doesn’t make any sense,” she says. “I don’t understand. Why are you interested in going to the beach if you cannot swim? Is that not a large part of the experience? You would be missing out on a great deal tethered to just the shore.”

“Oi, just ‘cause I ain’t all versed in swimming don’t mean I can’t soak in a bit of sun and have a sit in the shallow stuff,” he says. “Not about to miss any of that. ‘Sides, beaches always got nice sweets nearby. Might have a stroll down that big place we was before and maybe snag something from the shops. Might even have milk tea somewhere. This town’s got heaps of places.”

“I would not be surprised if it did,” says Satya, tracing at the edge of her bag. “There is an audience for practically anything, isn’t there?”

“But this ain’t just anything, y’know. This is good stuff. _Real_ good stuff. You’d like it if you had some done proper.”

“I do like sweet things on occasion,” she admits.

A smile takes to the edges of Junkrat’s mouth. The contoured muscle of his flecked shoulders and the wrought plane of his chest are almost too distracting. If he had chosen to remain without the thin stretch of shirt, it would have been somehow better. She is _used_ to his bare upper body—she can handle clothing’s absence—but instead a ruddy singlet hangs over top of him and does little to cover the low slung waistline of his belt. It almost doesn’t register when he plucks something thin out from the single pouch hitched to his belt, and when he holds it out between his thumb and forefinger for her to see, she has to squint and coax his hand toward her for a better look.

“Don’t suppose you’d be keen to try, yeah?” He waves the card back and forth in a teasing manner, flashing its holographic body under the hangar lights. “You said I’d best get it this time ‘round.”

“Is this what I think it is?” she asks.

After a brief moment of inspection, there is no doubt about it: it is definitely a type of funds card. The fact that he has one at all is a shock in itself, and if she is being completely honest, she suspected he was of the sort to stuff physical currency into jars and bury them in some secret location. That, or some elaborate vault somewhere beneath the Australian Outback. Either seems possible. She half expects the truth to be something far more complex.

Satya then glances at the name embossed upon the little rectangle’s surface. It strikes her as odd, because she distinctly remembers his name thanks to the lasting imprint of The Incident, and she knows for certain that _Xavier Arkwright_ is nowhere close. Jamison Fawkes doesn’t even share all of the same letters.

“Wait a moment. That isn’t your name.” Satya makes to flip the card. “Who is—”

“Don’t ask,” he says, snatching it away and squirreling it back into its pouch. “Best if you don’t. Promise it’s legit, though. Well, name’s not, but the rest is. Sort of. Mostly. Don’t ask.”

“Believe me, I have learned not to ask further questions.” She eyes the small pack at his hip with skepticism, forcing eyes to avoid the exposed trail of pale blond down his belly. “Whatever you plan to do as Xavier Arkwright is none of my business. I just hope you had the foresight to keep everything secure. I doubt Winston and the others would like a visit from the authorities.”

“No worries,” he says, golden molars glinting in a wide grin. “Ain’t nobody gonna be knocking on _our_ door for that.”

Satya finds it is better if she doesn’t dwell on what that means.

“So, with appropriate funds, does that mean you will be accompanying us to find swimsuits then? Surely you cannot mean to wear those.” She glances down at the ripped ends of his shorts, the sewn in patches upon his thigh smiling at her with toothy leers. “I would say the salt and sand would be poor for their longevity since they seem to be your only pair, but somehow I do not think that matters to you.”

“What? What’re you talking about? What’s wrong with ‘em?” Junkrat’s brow furrows as he leans forward to inspect each shabby leg, bunching the camouflage between his fingers with inquisitive tugs and pulls. “Been through a lot, y’know. Not like a little water’s gonna hurt ‘em or anything, salt and sand or not. They’ll be all right. I don’t see no problem.”

She narrows her gaze at the state of his shorts. “Are you certain you wouldn’t want something more… appropriate?”

“Appropriate?” Junkrat arcs one eyebrow in bewilderment. “We talking about the same thing here? S’just water. Not like it’s some fancy outing or anything like that.”

“Well, for one, it is highly likely your clothes will still be wet once we leave. You will have to deal with any water or sand that happens to accompany them.” She glances to his giant bodyguard, who seems to be redoing the knotted tail of platinum hair toward the top of his head. “Or Roadhog will, since I assume you will be riding sidecar in his motorbike. You said yourself he is very particular about the vehicle.”

Junkrat gives his shorts another thoughtful look. “Right. Yeah. Didn’t really think of that.”

“At least a set of swim trunks can be changed out of,” she says. “Besides, I feel it would be a more comfortable alternative.”

“So, you’re off to get togs with the girls, then?”

“I believe McCree may join us, but yes, I am,” she replies. “I brought a fair number of clothes with me, but a swimsuit was not one of them. I had not exactly anticipated something such as this.”

He scratches through shocks of blond before rubbing down his cheek. “Reckon I might tag along. Give Mister Arkwright a shot.”

Satya shakes her head, nonplussed that he would choose such a ridiculous name. It would be far better if he had chosen to remain Jamison Fawkes—or even Junkrat, really—but if he went out of his way to forge a fake name, then perhaps there is a good reason Jamison Fawkes is not being used.

“Oh, right, _right_ , almost forgot! Angel Wings get you right and patched?” He gestures at his left shoulder, indicating the injury she had sustained from hanging at the roof’s edge. “Don’t know how good Nan’s little mixes are, honestly. One she popped me with stung a bit. Did its job for the most part. Seemed to heal up all right. Nan’s stuff ain’t too bad, but ain’t nothing like the stuff Mercy’s got. Got some real bite to it.”

Junkrat lifts his right arm and scoops up the ruddy material of his shirt with his left hand, showing taut muscle and the faint lines of ribs. He presses at the skin beneath with the pads of fingers, as if testing at the wound that had once marred its side. While there is no scar of any kind, Satya finds her eyes gravitating to the birthmarks that star his chest in scattered constellations.

“Little achy still,” he says, teeth half bared in a grimace. “Reckon it’d be the same for you, y’know, since it looked like that shoulder weren’t treating you too nice on the way back. ‘Specially after hanging off that roof for however long then making more of them bridges to get us all across.” Junkrat’s gaze flicks to her left shoulder, back to her face, and then back to her shoulder again with widened eyes. “ _Oh_ ,” he says, realization dawning. “Oi, where’s your—”

“Elsewhere,” says Satya. “I did not think it wise to wear such sensitive technology to the seaside. It would risk damaging it, and I am not willing to take such a risk.”

“Oh,” says Junkrat.

His stare trails down the length of her arm and to her hand clasped upon her bag’s blue strap, and a ripple of discomfort rolls down the length of her backbone. It shouldn’t, but the way he looks at her reminds her of The Incident. It reminds her of his open mouth and the stark amber of his eyes and of his fingers held against the phantom pang of her kiss upon his cheek, trapping down the scars before they can dig too deep. It reminds her of too much, far too much, and her nails softly dig into the knuckles of her left hand.

Junkrat takes one step forward, forehead creased in puzzlement. His smooth prosthetic fingertips reach out as if to touch her bare arm, but pause and shrink back in a gnarled claw before they meet her skin. A white canine works at his lower lip and his shoulders seem to draw inward, the language of his body shifting to _too close_ , and he straightens his slouch beneath the duress of her eyes.

“Gonna be honest,” he says, hand bunching into the fabric of his shirt. “I thought it were… well, like mine. Something to replace what’s missing, right. Just all shopped up and fancier. With a proper neuroboard and with all the bells and whistles ‘cause that place did it for you. You let me have a look, but never really thought about it. Never thought it was just for the outside. Just thought, y’know, hey, good engineering. ‘Course it’d be all smooth like that. Lifelike and all.”

Satya glances down to her left hand. The nacreous blue of her nails seems to swirl beneath the fluorescent lights fixed beyond the ORCA. She releases her grip upon her purse’s strap and brings the underside of her palm toward the ceiling. His remark of nakedness without his traps rings in the film of her ears like the shrill aftermath of a landmine, and it occurs to her that she feels much the same without her gauntlet—too vulnerable, too useless, too alone, and too like the child Vishkar had found in the dregs of Hyderabad.

“It was expertly engineered,” she says, fingers pressing at the lifelines cradled along where the gauntlet’s crystal would be. “There is no doubt about that. I don’t know how much research was put into developing its prototype, but I imagine it was a great deal. I had to be measured before the initial model was even thought of. An entire team was devoted to its construction. The technology fitted into its size is immense. That is why I decided it was better if I left it here. To risk damaging it would be risking far more than just the gauntlet itself.”

“Guess that makes sense. It’d just be the same with these.” Junkrat flexes his metal hand and gives his right leg a shake for emphasis. “Though you got way more tech stuffed in that thing than just a couple neuroboards and a ball joint or two. Whatever lets you make them things all crammed in it. Don’t think something like that would be too keen on water.”

“No, not particularly,” she replies.

“Reckon you can make some real ripper sandcastles with it, though,” says Junkrat. He mimics what she assumes to be the _mudras_ she creates with her hands and holds an open palm as if to show off an invisible wireframe in its midst. “Pop one or two little buildings together, pat some sand on and _boom_ , got yourself a proper castle, complete with ramparts, moat, and flying buttresses.”

Satya narrows her gaze. “And why exactly would flying buttresses provide architectural stability to a sandcastle?”

“Style and improvisation,” he says, offering a shrug.

Sighing into her palm, she shuts her eyes and drifts among the idle chatter of her teammates. She is continually mystified at her own attraction to such an utter mess, and despite her best efforts, she keeps slipping back into something _comfortable_ with him. Of course, her interactions with him throughout the duration of the mission were unavoidable, but here, she is without the constraints that come with working toward an assignment’s success; she has free rein, and yet she is still consciously choosing to keep his company.

She doesn’t know what sort of taste her subconscious has acquired, but she is beginning to seriously question it.

The powerful hum of an engine snags her attention. Satya cranes over her shoulder to see Winston in the driver’s seat of a surprisingly current modeled vehicle glide up beneath the shadow of the ORCA. She doesn’t know where it might have been stashed among the hangar’s various nooks, crannies, and cargo, but she is quite impressed. Its overall size is large enough to accommodate the gorilla’s bulky body, although it seems as though the person who claims the unfortunate role as passenger beside him may have to knock shoulders. She can’t be sure, it appears to be military or government issued—perhaps a once gift from the UN?—and with a retractable top Winston seemed to have no choice but to employ due to his awkward bodyshape.

“Hop in!” he calls, gesturing to the jeep with a large paw. He peers up over the windshield and grins behind the lenses of his glasses. “There should be just enough room if those two are taking the motorcycle. Well, at least I think so. Two, three, four—” Winston’s brow knits as he counts seven upon Ana’s head. “Oops. Looks like one too many. Sorry, Ana. I’ll have to come back for you and the others on the second trip. Well, unless you feel like squeezing in between some of us.”

“Oh, don’t worry. It’s not a problem. I don’t mind staying behind.” Ana glances toward the hangar entrance, an amused smile at the corner of her mouth. “It seems Reinhardt and the others are being slowpokes. I was under the impression such spry soldiers would be a little faster. It looks like someone will have to put a bit of speed in their step.”

As Tracer zips to the front seat beside Winston, Mei, McCree, and Mercy make their way toward the other passenger seats. Satya trails behind McCree, catching the movement of Junkrat and Roadhog migrating to the motorcycle and its sidecar. Mercy and Mei stow their things into the rightmost side of the middle passenger seats before sliding in, and McCree hauls his duffel bag into the back before turning about and extending Satya a hand.

“Watch your step now,” he says, nodding to the steep gap between the vehicle and the hangar floor. “Don’t want you tripping there, little lady.”

Hesitantly, she accepts his offer and places her hand over top of his. “Thank you, McCree.”

“You really can call me Jesse, y’know. I won’t bite.” He helps her step into the back row of the jeep with a gentle lift. The faint scent of cigar smoke clings to his clothes and wisps under her nose. “Don’t gotta be so formal all the time. We’re headed for some good old R and R. Last names don’t apply.”

“It feels strange not to,” she says, and scoots over to the far side to allow him room. “It’s been ingrained within me, I suppose.”

He shuts the door with a grunt and settles himself in before strapping the seatbelt over his chest. “Well, maybe we oughta do a little un-graining. We’re all friends here, right? Least I reckon so. Don’t see why we can’t drop the mister and missus act. I’d say calling me Jesse’s a good first step.” He leans back and rests his elbow against the back of the seat. “So, let’s hear it.”

Satya resists a smirk. “All right. Well, _Jesse_ , is this your first time to Gibraltar’s beaches?”

“Ooh, that sounded mighty serious. Good try, though.” McCree grins and shakes his head. “Nah, I’ve been down a few times. Couple to _La Caleta_ , couple to the Eastern. Don’t think I’ve been to the others. There’s six of ‘em or something like that. Least from what I can remember.”

“And which are we headed to?” she asks.

“Y’know, that’s a real good question. Hey, Winston!” McCree waves toward the rearview mirror to catch his attention. “Which little stretch of sand are we headed to, partner?”

“The Catalan, since it’s closest to us from the Rock,” says Winston. He switches the jeep in gear and begins to coast toward the hangar entrance. While a bulky vehicle, it seems to have a decent amount of control. “I suppose we could always drive over to Sandy Bay or one of the others, but I assume everyone would appreciate a bit less travel time.”

“Fair enough. I don’t mind a short ride. More sunshine and swimming for the rest of us. Wouldn’t mind a little ice cream and a drink or two, either.”

Mercy glances over the middle seat with an amused yet disapproving frown. “Jesse. Come on, now. It’s two o’clock in the afternoon.”

“Hey, it’s five o’clock somewhere,” he says, shoulders slouching in a shrug. “If we’re going down there to sit back and relax, you can bet I’m gonna sit back and relax. One of them nice little frozen drinks’ll be just enough to take the edge off. ‘Sides, something like that’s always real nice on a hot, sunny afternoon. Can’t go denying a man one of life’s simple pleasures, Doc.”

“I am not denying you anything,” she says, “but I do expect you to be responsible. If I leave to get something to eat and come back to you making a fool of yourself, I am going to be very cross with you.”

“Hey, c’mon now. That really hurts. You know I’m always responsible.”

“That’s a bloody lie if I ever heard one,” says Tracer.

“Hush, you,” says McCree.

“That only proves it, you know!”

“I said _hush_.”

“Hey, I’m just being honest,” she says. “Can’t really fault me that, can you?”

“No, I can’t, but I can personally guarantee you’re gonna find yourself neck deep in sand once we get there.”

“Oh, I think that’s a bit of a stretch. You’ll have to catch me first!”

“Lena,” sighs Winston, “please don’t encourage him. I really don’t want to drive back to find the both of you buried on the beach.”

Satya shuts her eyes and tries to tune out her companions’ ribbing by turning her focus to the drone of the vehicle’s engine. As they pass beneath the hangar’s gate and glide out onto the paved pathway that curves through the Rock and toward its westward face, a pair of disparate echoing hums resounds against building sides and craggy, misshapen faces of rock. With the jeep’s top retracted and tucked away, the wind supplies another healthy distraction. She breathes, sinks her hands against her purse, the empty grenade shell resisting back among her fingers, and tries to keep The Incident as a distant thought.

The descent down the Rock is soaked in harsh sunshine and the crisp aroma of a flowing sea breeze. The ocean clamors beyond sloping rocks and steep crags, and vast copses of scraggly trees sprout up from wedged cracks and deposits of soft soil lodged between shards of slate and rough earth. Beady-eyed macaques stare from branches and eroded paths as the jeep sails along switchbacks and coasts down toward the Catalan bay. If Satya watches the calm waters through the window, she can discern small ivory specks of what look to be pleasure boats cruising along the crystalline blue far down below. The beach is a glimmering white strip close by, clustered with colorful blotted lines marking the towels and parasols of locals and tourists alike. The jeep takes a sharp curve down another switchback, and then the inviting coastline scenery is swiped out of sight.

When the tree lines start to become thicker, swatches of color flourish amongst their branches. Warblers and finches swoop out from thickets and leaves, startled at the pair of unwanted intrusions twisting down the crumbling road. The motorcycle trailing behind the jeep commands a powerful engine, and it rouses the macaques from their scavenging and drowns out merry chirps from trilling songbirds. Winston hangs a right at a split, and the sunbleached crags begin to lessen and smooth into a more sloping landscape with the descent upon the Rock’s eastern face.

Satya affords a look out the back window. Roadhog is situated on his motorcycle, thick hands curled around the grips. His mask holds an impending stare, scowling at her with black eyes, and his platinum hair gleams a stark white beneath the brilliant sunlight. Junkrat sits in the yellow smile-etched sidecar, one leg crossed and elbows resting against the back of the pale seat, his posture slumped and just as poor as always. Whips of blond tipped in charcoal thread through the passing winds, accentuating the sharpness of his widow’s peak, and she finds that he reminds her more and more of a stoked flame and all of its flickering wildness. The ruddy singlet is askew once again, she notes, although there is nothing she can do about it from this distance—not that she would dare to adjust it a second time.

Thankfully, Junkrat seems to be entranced by the passing landscape. Eyes squinted and nose scrunched, he cranes his neck to watch the lush summer flora and the scattered birds sent fluttering into the skies overhead. His metal fingers drum something against the length of the seat, keeping in with his usual rhythms, and although she can’t quite see, she is sure his leg must be bobbing, too. Somehow, she has a feeling that the empty bag of crisps is still stashed somewhere in the bottom of the sidecar by his feet.

It shouldn’t, but something inside of her bristles at his position upon the seat. She is not with the pair of junkers and she is not in Junkrat’s lap and his arm is not tucked at her waist and she is not touching him in any manner, and yet a part of her coils up as if she were. The itching desire for physical contact prickles in the centers of her palms, and the remembered warmth of his cheek sends her nails digging into the soft material of her purse. The cracked surface of the rooftop in Lijiang wrenches back into memory, the heat of his body breathing beneath her and his good hand kneading into her shoulder, and she finds that she can no longer swallow.

Junkrat turns to Roadhog, his mouth shaping around words she can’t read. Roadhog only shrugs; if he indulges in a verbal reply, his mask obscures it entirely. Seeming satisfied with whatever Roadhog’s answer implied, Junkrat says something else and turns his gaze back toward the tree line. A moment passes; his brow knits, as if second guessing what he had seen, and he then wrenches his head back to look ahead at the jeep—and at Satya.

If she could somehow work down the knot in her throat, she would be far better off. Instead, she is stuck in place, harpooned there by his eyes, and the thump at her ribs a great, crescendoing roll. The lump at the back of her mouth seems to tighten, and no matter how hard she tries, it will not move.

Junkrat cracks a wide grin. He says something else to Roadhog, but it doesn’t seem to hold any relevance, as Roadhog does not give any sort of visual response. Working one shoulder, Junkrat lifts his good hand and gives her a wave with wiggling fingers. His cheery _g’day_ floats through her head, and she does not know whether that says more about his mannerisms, or her uncanny memory when it comes to said mannerisms.

Tentatively, Satya waves back. It is belated, brief, with her left hand lifted by her shoulder just enough so he can see the blue flash of her nails. Junkrat laughs, his smile far too contagious, and she swears he winks at her from his place in the sidecar, but they are trailing too far behind for her to tell for certain. He turns his focus back toward the passing trees, but not before offering another little wave in her direction. She considers returning it, but something nudges her shoulder before she can decide.

“He making faces at you or something?” McCree glances out the back window, his metal arm stretched across the back seat. “Some piece of work, ain’t he?”

“No, he was doing nothing of the sort. He only waved at me.” Satya brings her arm back to cradle her purse, fingers tracing at the strap. “I will agree that he is certainly unique, though. Throughout all my travels, I have never met anyone quite like him.”

“Hey, takes all kinds. Kid’s a bit crazy, but he knows his stuff. Reminds me of somebody I knew back in my Deadlock days. Her thing wasn’t bombs, though. She liked fire.” McCree works his jaws in thought, his umber eyes fixed on the black material of the seat back in front of him. “Sometimes I wonder where her and all the rest of them ended up.”

“Deadlock?” Satya quirks an eyebrow. “Sorry, I am unfamiliar with that name.”

“Sometimes I forget not everybody’s where I’m from.” McCree shrugs and readjusts his legs. “Well, long story short, it was an old gang back over in the United States. Dealt with moving weapons under the table, mostly. Did some other things, too. Not too great things. But weapons trafficking was a real good chunk of it. Home to lots of folks, y’know, riffraff and ruffians and whatever else you’d care to call ‘em. Yours truly was a part of it. Well, least ‘til Overwatch scrounged me up and set me straight.”

“Reminiscing, are you?” Mercy leans over the back of her seat, arms folded and with a wan smile upon her mouth. “That was quite a long time ago. I haven’t heard the name Deadlock in many, many years.”

“Not so much reminiscing as wondering if my old colleagues got dealt a worse hand than me,” says McCree.

“I would not call the hand you were dealt particularly poor,” she says.

“Well, no,” McCree admits. “It wasn’t bad. But it wasn’t that great, either. I reckon it’s better than what the rest of them had to go through, though. If they got caught, that is. Kinda lost track after a while. Gang’s defunct, but I still think about the rest of ‘em every now and again.”

“You were a criminal,” says Satya, frown thin and firm, “and yet Overwatch allowed you to join its ranks?”

“Sort of. Kind of a complicated situation. The whole thing wasn’t exactly off the books, but it probably wasn’t something they should’ve done. I got lucky with how things played out.”

“I don’t think it was quite all luck,” says Mercy.

“Maybe, maybe not. Little luck, little skill.” McCree scratches at his beard, metal fingers trailing up his jaw. The wind musses his shaggy hair, thick locks of brown stirring by his neck and ears. “So, story is I got busted during a sting. It was a long, long while back and real bad day, the kind you wish you’d never woken up to. After some of Overwatch’s men broke in and wiped the floor with us, I figured it couldn’t get much worse. I was getting ready for a hell of a long stint behind bars, but instead of just hauling me off to some max security prison like the rest of the folks they cuffed, they gave me the option to saddle up and join Blackwatch. I thought, hey, could be worse. Opportunity’s knocking, right? Might as well answer. So, I chose Blackwatch. Took me in, cleaned me up, gave me a standard issue uniform, and put me right to work. Criminal record was wiped and I spent my days in black ops instead of Deadlock. Not a bad deal for a teen in a bad situation.”

Satya glances to Mercy, an unsettling feeling tense beneath her breastbone. “You mentioned criminal absolution before. Is this what you were referring to?”

“It was, yes,” she replies. “Despite what Jesse had been a part of in his past, his decision to join Overwatch was life changing. Of course, all of us saw nothing but a young miscreant with a chip on his shoulder—”

“ _Hey_ now, you’re the same age as me! You can’t rightly say—”

“—but he proved himself to be far more than that. The opportunity to enter Overwatch let him become a better individual than what Deadlock would have offered. He grew into a good man with a good heart, even if a little mischief still lingers.” Mercy eyes him with amusement as she tucks a lock of blond behind her ear. “Isn’t that right?”

McCree covers his mouth with his right hand. Satya thinks she can see color flush through his cheeks, but thick sweeps of tousled brunet hair make it difficult to see. “Yeah, sure, I guess,” he mumbles into his palm. “Whatever you say, Doc.”

The remainder of the descent is uneventful. Crisp emerald foliage gives way to stone and brick and pavement, and then the road slopes down from the steeper sides of the Rock into a smooth curve toward the beach. Despite the warm and sunny afternoon, the beach itself seems to have a relatively small crowd for its size; there are multiple areas among the sandy stretch with empty spaces ready to claim.

As Winston coasts the jeep up to the sunbleached parking lot, Satya realizes that the Catalan bay had not been the beach that she remembers from the scrap run. Instead of a broad promenade with shops decorating each side, a sizeable strip of what looks to be various restaurants, bars, and stores is lined up along the outskirts of the lower Rock and its surrounding sharp hillsides. The one she’d seen with Junkrat and Roadhog was one of Gibraltar’s western coves, closer to the town rather than in the shadow of the Rock itself.

When the vehicle comes to a stop, Satya gathers her purse as McCree grabs a hold of his duffel bag and the others collect their belongings before popping open doors and filing out one by one onto the hot pavement. Satya coaxes the door shut behind her as Roadhog pulls up into the adjacent parking space, the bike’s engine a loud, vibrating roar. After checking the gauges, he cuts the engine and rises from the seat to grab something from the set of gear strapped to its back. Junkrat hops out of the sidecar after him, swiping a pack of some kind from its floor and shuffling it over his shoulder.

Satya rounds the black bulk of the jeep to see Tracer and Mei squinting out toward the clustered buildings by the foot of the Rock. Mercy bids Winston goodbye with a light wave, and McCree has already started across the length of the lot with great purpose shaping his strides. Roadhog lumbers past with a large towel slung over his shoulder, a thick novel in one hand and what looks to be a miniature cooler in the other. His blue and white Hawaiian patterned shorts grant such an oddness to his retreating image, and Satya finds it difficult not to snicker.

“I will be back shortly with the others,” says Winston through the open window. “It shouldn’t take too long. Stake claim to a good spot for us, won’t you?”

“Of course, big guy,” says Tracer, flashing him a wink. “Promise, we’ll get the best spot on this whole stretch. You can count on it!”

“Fantastic. I look forward to it. See you all in a bit!” With a cheery salute and a toothy grin, Winston puts the vehicle in reverse and then glides off toward the road, his furry head poking up out of the top.

“Well, where do we want to set up?” asks Mercy. She squints beneath the shelter of her hand and gives the beach out ahead a quick survey. “The crowd seems rather thin, so it looks like we have quite a good amount of space to choose from. Closer to the shops might be a good idea, especially if we walk back and forth for refreshments.”

“Doctor Ziegler,” says Mei, pointing down past the parking lot, “I think Jesse might already have a place in mind.”

Sure enough, McCree has already cleared the lot and traversed a good portion into the beach itself. His awkward steps among the deeper stretches of sand remind Satya of waddling waterfowl, but he’s still managed to gain a decent lead in spite of it. Roadhog is approximately fifteen feet behind him, lumbering along with heavy steps, his book under one arm and the cooler clutched in the other hand.

“Wait for me!” Tracer slings her purse over her shoulder and jolts off after them. She blinks across the lot in a snap of azure, winding down the curve and toward the sand with unmatched speed.

“I suppose we should follow, shouldn’t we?” says Satya, watching Tracer’s accelerator glint a brilliant blue against the white of the beachside. “Find a spot, situate our things, and then head toward the shops?”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” says Mei. She wipes at her forehead with her palm and puffs a sigh. “This heat is a little much, though. I hope they have umbrellas. Or sunhats at the very least. I should have brought Snowball along.”

“I am not expecting large selections, but I find it difficult to believe they wouldn’t have some form of beach gear here. We might be able to find an umbrella or two.” Mercy shoulders the weight of her bag and starts across the lot. “Oh, and sunscreen! Sunscreen is a must, especially with such sunny weather. This time of year is always particularly harsh on the skin, you know.”

With part of the Rock looming in the distance and the gentle touch of the breeze caressing at her neck, Satya settles a hand on her purse and follows in Mei’s footsteps. The distant call of gulls accompanies the heavy roll of the ocean waves sloping in at the shoreline, and it offers a tranquil setting despite the gatherings of chatting beachgoers dotted amongst the sand ahead. She pulls in a deep breath, full of warmth and serenity and the tang of salt, and finds herself eyeing the steep hills with their sparse greenery crawling up toward the craggy side of the Rock, up above the lines of several storied buildings by the twisting road. Gibraltar is no city, she thinks, nothing like Lijiang or London or even Utopaea, but she must admit that it has its own rustic charm.

A palpable cloak of contentment drapes about her shoulders, nestling in and ushering away the past several weeks’ stacks of worries and concerns. It has always been difficult to disconnect herself from her work, whether it was travelling, impending client visits, or investing her time and energy into creating new hard-light designs and structures, and the price to pay ranged anywhere from sleep deprivation to lessened focus and a wandering mind. There is no question that she has suffered countless prices as of late—one price in particular concerning the presence of a mad bomber—and it is very clear that she has been in desperate need of a holiday.

It isn’t until she reaches the end of the paved parking lot that she realizes said mad bomber is missing.

Brow pinched in puzzlement, she peers ahead to where McCree and Roadhog have taken the lead. The two weave among clusters of other tourists and locals who have already claimed their spots in the sand, and from what she can see, Junkrat’s wiry frame is nowhere among them. He isn’t with Mei or Mercy, and he isn’t anywhere in between their respective groups. He most certainly did not jump into the jeep with Winston, either; his dislike of omnics would prevent him from being crushed into such close quarters with either Genji or Zenyatta on the return trip to the Catalan.

Satya pivots a quarter turn on the ball of her foot and looks toward Roadhog’s parked motorcycle. Junkrat stands just outside of it, bent over its smiling front and leaning in as if he had forgotten something important amongst the scattered rubbish on the car’s floor. The beige rucksack he had taken on the scrap run is strapped about his chest and over his back, the familiar glint of the hard-light blade strapped across the back of his belt in its sheath, and with his peg popped up and half his body over the sidecar with the ruddy singlet shoved up his belly, he sports a rather comical appearance.

“Junkrat,” she calls, “are you going to come with us?”

A few moments pass by with no response. Seagulls caw overhead and the waves seep onto the shore, and he continues his concentrated rummaging. Perhaps he hadn’t heard?

“ _Junkrat_ ,” she calls again, this time with a stronger volume, “Junkrat, are you coming?”

She thinks she can hear him mumble something into the shell of the sidecar, but he seems far too preoccupied with whatever current predicament he’s in to pay proper attention to his surroundings. Satya glances back over toward the others to find that Mei and Mercy have moved a good chunk of the way down the beach in attempt to catch up, and both McCree and Roadhog have wandered down even further, headed toward what she assumes to be the strip of buildings beneath the Rock. She could choose to join them by herself, or she could choose to pull Junkrat by the back of his shirt and persuade him to attend the rest of the group. If she chose the former, she would have to wait for him to finish digging through the sidecar, trek across the beach, and join up with everyone else before they could hope to purchase swimsuits. If she chose the latter, any waiting would be bypassed completely.

Drawing in a steeling breath, Satya strides back across the parking lot with purposeful steps. As she draws closer, it becomes apparent that Junkrat is muttering to himself as he searches throughout the contents of the sidecar’s floor. Even with the closing distance, she can’t quite parse any words; she assumes he’s talking to whatever it is he can’t find, coupled with several choice curses for emphasis. It strikes her as strange that he would struggle to find anything amongst a few scattered grenade shells and a discarded crisps bag, but then again, she doesn’t know what else he might have decided to store there for safekeeping.

Satya takes pause a body’s breadth behind him and begins to watch. Although he is partially covered by the scraggly red tank, the muscles of his back coil taut beneath the pale rucksack and fall slack again when he tries to lean further in. It takes a few more moments of hunting before he seems to give up at last and drops to his feet, resting his arms over the edge of the sidecar as his shoulders wilt into a slump. His prosthetic hand combs through his hair, metal fingers scratching at the back of his scalp, and he expels a heavy sigh of defeat.

Slowly, Satya reaches out to tug at the displaced hem of his shirt. She works it down to his waistline in a single, decisive pull. Junkrat jolts away from the sidecar as if electricity struck down through to his marrow, and he stumbles backward into its awaiting smile with wide eyes and his fingers across his heart.

“Oh, it’s you,” he breathes, an octave or two higher than usual. “Well, that’ll give the ol’ ticker a good jumpstart. Coulda just said something, y’know.”

“I did,” says Satya. “Twice, in fact. It was not quiet, either. And to think you called me jumpy.”

“Well, you were,” he says. “This weren’t just saying hello. How’m I supposed to know you’re waiting about behind me?”

“As I said, I called you. Twice. I expected an answer, but you simply seemed too…” She peers past his shoulder toward the sidecar. “… _engaged_. What exactly are you doing? The others are already halfway toward a spot by now, I’m sure. McCr—Jesse seemed very intent.”

“I think I mighta forgot something.” Junkrat scowls at the motorcycle, as if it had the audacity to conceal whatever he had been searching for and was somehow being as smug as an inanimate object could possibly be about it. “I coulda swore I stuffed it in with the rest of Hog’s things, but I didn’t see it nowhere on the back. Reckon maybe it got dropped in the bottom of the car, but nothing’s there but some old stuff needing scrapped. Ain’t with any of me own gear, either. Already looked.”

“Well, is it a possibility Roadhog already took it?”

Satya rounds to the back of the motorcycle, stepping past the frontward tusks and the pig figurine and the black leather seat. The strapped packs onto its spine have already been rifled through, she notes, and as she lifts the various flaps and opens assorted pouches before pulling them shut again, she manages to catch sight of bundled folds of clothing (Roadhog’s, she assumes) as well as tiny tins and canisters and the unmistakable shape of another book.

“He did leave ahead of you, after all,” she says. “I saw he took a few different items. Perhaps it was one of them?”

“Don’t think so,” says Junkrat, drumming his fingers upon the sidecar’s edge. “He got his book with him and then he got some of his own brews and Tim Tams in that little esky. Didn’t see him grab nothing else. Musta left it back in the rooms or something.”

Satya closes one last pouch among the packs. “Might I ask what it is?”

“S’nothing important. Not really.” Junkrat pushes himself off of the yellow hull and hooks a thumb under the rucksack to adjust its weight upon his shoulder. “Just would make things easier is all.”

“Well, we are headed to the shops, remember. You could always try to find something like it there, whatever it is. I am certain they have a decent amount of merchandise.” Satya cranes her neck back toward the beach. She recognizes Roadhog’s giant form among the scattered crowds, and she squints in attempt to get a better look at their surrounding companions; it is too far away to tell, but McCree and Roadhog seem to have set up a decent distance from the waterline. “In the meantime, I think it is best we join the others. To make them wait any longer would be impolite. It looks like they might have found a place for us already.”

“Eh?” Junkrat peers out beneath the arc of his metal hand, forehead wrinkled and nose scrunched as he narrows his eyes. “Well, what d’you know. Sure looks like it, yeah? Roadie’s the best at stuff like that. Leave it to him to get some prime territory. Even when we was ‘round Queensland, he always went about getting the best spot. Nobody wants to say no to ol’ pigface when he gets all close and snarly.”

“He is quite the intimidating individual,” says Satya, pivoting on her foot to begin her journey back across the hot pavement. “I have never seen anyone command such a presence. I have never seen anyone quite so tall, either. And I thought Reinhardt was a large man.”

“Oi, I ain’t complaining. Best bodyguard’s one that makes everyone piss off just from the look of ‘em. Less problems for me. Hard to come after someone when they got somebody like him staring back at you.” He grins and a pleased laugh hums in his throat as he lopes up beside her, the bottom of his peg clicking against the sunsoaked asphalt as he keeps in time with her steps. “Things got a hell of a lot less busy when Hog came around.”

“I do not doubt it,” she says, and keeps her gaze straight ahead to avoid the tempting draw of his waistline.

When the pavement comes to an end and waves of sand take its place, Satya feels the granules slip into her sandals and mesh between the spaces of her toes. The shimmering blue of her nails complements stark ivory beneath pale fingers of sand, and although the sensation is odd, it is familiar and not unpleasant. The long white stretch toward the underside of the Rock has been pressed into shifting molds of others’ footprints, and as she skirts around other sunbathing beachgoers, she takes care to keep her footing even despite the ground’s ample give.

It isn’t long before she notices Junkrat has fallen behind. Instinctively, she slows her steps and glances over her shoulder to question his change in pace. To her surprise, his attention has not been snatched by something shiny and he has not become preoccupied with the surrounding scenery; instead, his prosthetic leg appears to be giving him trouble. The end of it sinks firmly into the ground, and with its chosen structure of a peg instead of something wider or more footlike at its base, it leaves him with very little space to distribute his weight amongst the sand. While she will admit that his creations are strong and well-built and more than suit their intended purpose, there are clear detriments to their design.

“Do you need assistance?” she asks, eyeing his prosthesis as he kicks it forward with effort.

“Nah. Should be fine once we get close.” With one boot forward, he attempts to work himself into the strides of others’ footprints, taking advantage of the already made depressions and dispersed sand. Although successful, it proves to be an incredibly awkward gait—not that it was not awkward to begin with. “Water makes it all nice and easy to walk on. Smooth, right. Sandcastle material. Stuff out here’s another story. Not exactly even.”

Satya continues forward once he has achieved a close enough distance, maintaining a slower pace for his benefit. “If the leg is the problem, why have you not considered developing a new prosthesis? It is clear you are capable from the two you already have. Your designs are functional, if not somewhat rudimentary. With all of what we have available to us here, I would think it would be the perfect time to develop something new.”

“Right, sure,” says Junkrat. “I mean, I got heaps of designs, yeah. Probably only got one or two that’re really worth it. But it ain’t just swiping parts for ‘em to make ‘em work, y’know. You was going on about measuring, right? Measuring so you can get all the little bits and pieces fitting just the way they’re supposed to? Gotta do that, but for the whole bloody thing. If it’s gonna be proper, can’t just go scraping parts off some clunker in the streets. Need specific parts. Specific sizes. ‘Specially if it’s gonna match me other foot this time around.” He scratches at his scalp with his left hand and his gaze drops to the orange metal of his arm, fingers flexing under the glare of the sun. “And then there’s the neuroboard. Current one won’t cut it. Too old. Gotta find one that’ll be good enough, and don’t even know if it’d work right with what I’d put together. Then I mighta just wasted parts and got a hold of a dodgy neuroboard for nothing.”

“Is that what you went through with your arm?” She glances to his wrist, watching as he curls his fingers in toward his palm.

“Sorta,” he says, wiggling them for emphasis. “Didn’t care too much ‘bout measuring with it, though. Just got what I could. Time got a little on the short side. Weren’t really worried about what it looked like so long as it worked.”

“Fair enough. Well, regardless of the technology integrated, it seems incredibly responsive for its design. Nimble enough to perform complex tasks that require precision and dexterity, yet strong enough to hold another person’s weight.” She reaches out with one hand, and pauses to hold his pinky between her thumb and forefinger. The metal is warm, brimming with sunlight and body heat, and she remembers the exertion through his features as he bent over the edge of the building, prosthetic fingers clenched onto the metal of her gauntlet. “For an artificial limb made entirely without any professional input, it is quite impressive. Your leg leaves much to be desired, however.”

“Just worked with what I had,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “Kept me up and about this long. Busted it a few times, sure, but always managed to patch it back up again. Good thing about it is it’s got some simple upkeep. A foot and toes’ve got some finer things to ‘em than Ol’ Faithful here.”

“And yet a foot and toes would avoid your current problem,” she says. “I see no reason not to pursue a new design, especially if it would be so beneficial to your wellbeing. And balance, I might add.”

“I’ll have you know I got plenty of balance,” says Junkrat.

“Not from what I’ve seen,” she replies.

“Yeah, well, that ain’t my fault. You’re just not looking at the right times.”

Satya arches an eyebrow. “And when exactly should I be looking, then? Assuming there are both _right_ and _wrong_ times for this, of course.”

He does not meet her questioning gaze. Instead, Junkrat directs his focus ahead to where Roadhog and McCree had claimed their entourage’s intended relaxation spot a good distance down the tourist-dappled beachside. His thick eyebrows are drawn together, a small crease at the side of his mouth as if he meant to smile and were resisting its urge, and his left hand mimics the posture of having the familiar feel of a detonator against his palm.

“Well?” She pauses mid-step to regard him with folded arms, cocking a hip as the warm winds stir at the sapphire folds of her skirt. “Or can you not name a correct time?”

Junkrat walks past her for five awkward steps, boot and peg placed just right among the lingering footprints that pattern the shoreline. The muscles in his arms tense, his shoulders coil together, his back begins to hunch, and then his stature shifts into something far from leisure. He glances back at her with mischief gleaming in the gold of his grin, and before Satya can think to say anything, Junkrat bolts forward in a rush.

At first, it appears as if he means to run—perhaps to prove that his right leg is not as ineffectual as it truly is, although she cannot be sure—but that notion is promptly dispelled once he arcs himself headfirst to the ground. It takes a moment for her to realize his intent; hands struck out before him, splayed wide and open, he plants his palms into the sand and uses his momentum to heft himself up, up, and into an almost perfect handstand.

Body straight, back rigid, and knees somewhat bent, his shirt tumbles up his hard belly and bunches together toward his chin. The patched legs of his shorts shuffle an inch or two down his thighs, presenting a stark line of pale white skin where the sun has yet to touch. With his rucksack sliding off his shoulder and settling into the sand by his hands, he smiles with his tongue between his teeth and flashes a wink.

“Now’d be a good one,” he says.

Satya doesn’t want to stare. _Shouldn’t_ stare. He is doing this in purpose to prove a point, she knows, and she also knows that she does not need to indulge any of his childish behaviors because it will inevitably lead to more interactions she is less than equipped to deal with. Still, in spite of this, the flecked birthmarks pressed to his skin draw her attention: the mole above his navel, the pair kissed upon opposite sides of his ribs, the jagged constellation traced down his left arm. The lean muscle that sculpts his stomach and the prominent lines of his hipbones and the blond trail leading beneath his belt only further commandeer her gaze, and it takes a great deal of willpower to coax herself to focus upon his face.

If she’s honest, she hadn’t expected such a display of strength or control. While she expected him to do _something_ simply because he is Junkrat and he is fond of both puns and taking others by surprise, she had not expected something quite of this… _caliber_. Regardless of his spells of stumbling or occasional skewed equilibrium, it is clear that he possesses an astounding amount of power over his own body. His wiry musculature already suggests at his capabilities—no, she doesn’t need to think about that, she _doesn’t_ —and this only opens the path for more.

His smirk does not help in the slightest.

“Apparently I must retract my statement,” she says, averting her eyes to the ocean waves. Her fingers sink into her arms, pressuring her thoughts to route away from him bare and dripping upon the shower bench and toward something far more chaste in nature. “It seems you do have balance after all. I am rather impressed.”

The back of her mind ghosts over Zenyatta’s sagely advice, and a part of her wishes she had the ability to say the same of herself.

“Told you,” says Junkrat. There is a distinct lilt to his voice; it’s so very satisfied, as if he’s won a game or some sort of bet and it’s all he can do to keep himself from gloating.

“All right, you have made your point,” she says. The soft blue of the sea, while interesting in its own right, could not hold a candle to the draw of his posture. “You may stop now. Stand up and get back on your feet so we can meet the others. I think we have kept them waiting long enough, and it would be rude to let them continue.”

“Right, right, fine,” he says. “If you insist.”

“I do insist,” says Satya.

“You insist on a lot of things.”

Satya narrows her eyes and flicks her gaze back to his smirking face. “What?”

“Well, you do,” he says, arms bending just a touch to mimic what she can only assume to be a shrug.

“I insist?” She takes two steps forward and zeroes in on him. “And you don’t insist, Jamison _‘I refuse to accept omnics or create a new leg or sleep at appropriate hours’_ Fawkes?”

Amber eyes widened and blond brows arched, Junkrat’s countenance shifts from satisfaction to what resembles shock. His mouth opens halfway, but he does not bear any witty replies; instead, he stares at her with stark disbelief and allows his jaw to slowly draw shut again before his arms start to wobble. Regardless of whether he held a fitting retort in mind, whatever had allowed him to maintain such astounding balance is lost to the sea breeze. She doesn’t know if his abdominal muscles gave up, if his back wasn’t quite straight enough, if his arms got tired, or if the blood rushing to his head was just not ideal, but his body sways backward with surprising force, and it results in him toppling back-first into a lanky heap in the sand.

A moment or two passes between them both, brimming with a stunned silence. The seagulls gliding overhead in the soft winds call to one another over the breathing of the ocean waves, and the drone of nearby chatter from other tourists offers a continuous undercurrent of noise. Satya’s heartbeat is steady in her ear, her palm poised over her mouth in surprise, and as she stares at him lying supine and nonplussed in the sand, it occurs to her that this is the first time she has called him by his true name since The Incident.

A part of her bristles at the thought, reminded of the warmth of his cheek and the heat of his body and the sheer closeness of him upon the outcrop by the sea, while the rest of her shrinks in contrition. Even if he had divulged his name during The Incident, did she still have permission to use it? She had decidedly called him Junkrat when she had retrieved her blueprints despite him prompting her with Satya, all out of the desire to place distance between them. The rigid formality in her retaliates with firm admonishments: he is Junkrat, he is _only_ Junkrat, and that is how she should address him—

Until she sees him lean his head back and grin at her with unmistakable amusement glinting in his eyes.

“Case you was wondering,” he says, raising a single metal finger, “this’d be a wrong one.”

Satya’s mind sputters, bewildered at why on earth he’d— _oh_.

And then she laughs.

She _laughs_.

She clamps her hands over her mouth and _laughs_ , at herself and at him and The Incident and his stupid reference and his mussed shirt and at the sand scattered all over him—and she can’t stop herself. She laughs until her eyes water, until her stomach burns, until she must force herself to stop because she cannot breathe, and even then, it is another several moments before she can resume any semblance of stoicism she once held. Dabbing at the corners of her eyes with the backs of her fingers, she tries to convince her lungs to work properly and draws in shaky inhales to slake the thirst for oxygen as she closes the gap between herself and Junkrat.

“It seems you were right,” she admits, staving off a final snicker. “There are indeed right and wrong times for this sort of thing.”

“Told you. I got plenty of balance.” Junkrat stares up at her with flushed cheeks and a weak smile curving the corner of his mouth. “Well, ‘til something like that happens, that is.”

“I will be sure to keep that in mind for next time.” Satya smooths her hands down her skirt as she kneels beside him in the sand. “Would you like a hand? Or do you need a moment?”

He lifts his prosthesis, shakes off a healthy coat of sand, and then brings his palm to his chin. He twists his head to the side with an audible crack and breathes a sigh in relief. “Feeling a bit lightheaded. Might sit here a minute.”

“A moment it is, then,” she concedes. Satya takes solace in knowing her restraint would outlast his balance any day. “Perhaps that might teach you to quit while you’re ahead.”

“Oi, I weren’t that far ahead of you,” he says.

“That is not what I meant.”

“Yeah?” Junkrat arches his eyebrows. “You sure?”

“I meant specifically in regards to… well, whatever that display was. While trying to prove yourself, you became too confident and suffered the consequences. Said consequences just so happen to be your current situation.”

“Didn’t hear you complain any,” he says. “Sounded an awful lot like laughing to me.”

Satya glances down at him. The ruddy singlet is still rucked up by his collarbone, offering an ample view of the muscle down his belly and the blond trail that dips below his belt. She must rein in the impulse to correct its placement, and she is half tempted to start brushing off the grains of sand that have collected among his shirt. Consciously bringing her attention back to his face, warm amber squints back up at her under the harsh sunlight, the dappled freckles and birthmarks spotting his cheeks and nose impossible to ignore.

“I think all of the blood has gone to your head,” she says, assuming what she hopes to be a disapproving expression.

“Yeah. Sure. Might be.” Junkrat shrugs, a glimpse of gold flashing in the corner of his grin. “But I don’t mind.”

Satya is about to ask him exactly what he means before she hears the distinctive sound of footsteps approaching through the sand. She flicks her gaze upward to see Tracer jogging close by, or jogging as best she can with flat sandals on incredibly giving and uneven terrain. The brilliant blue of her chronal accelerator almost seems to outshine the sun, and it charges into a blinding burn as she blinks forward to close the remaining distance.

“Oi, what happened? Is he all right?” She slows to a stop at Junkrat’s side. Leaning down, her hands come to rest on the knobs of her knees as she peers down the nose of her sunglasses. “Well, now, look at you. Took a right nasty fall, you did. Jesse said you were standing on your head, but I didn’t catch that part. Just saw you come down like a sack of bricks about two seconds later. How’s the weather down there?”

“Real bloody bright and full of sand,” says Junkrat, wrinkling his nose.

“Well, that sounds about right. You okay, love? Land on anything important?”

“If you count some seashell as important, then yeah, sure, suppose I did. Or maybe it was some critter.” He lifts himself onto his elbows and digs down underneath his back with his good hand. Tugging it back out again, he squints down at the sharded ruins of a small hermit crab’s once home that lies in the valley of his palm. “Nope. Seashell. Pretty one. Looks like the only casualty.”

“He was doing a handstand,” says Satya, coaxing him to drop the shell with a wave of her hand. “I believe his pride took a larger casualty than the seashell.”

“That ain’t true.”

“Well, doing a handstand in the sand isn’t really the best place, honestly,” says Tracer.

“Oi, you didn’t even see me do it!”

“Despite the poor setting, he did perform it properly,” admits Satya. “For the most part, anyhow. He did happen to fall at the end, even if it was a decent handstand.”

“Starting to feel a bit slighted here.”

“Not like falling’s new or anything,” says Tracer. “Jumping off of roofs and all that. Don’t know why. Should be expected at this point, really.”

“ _Real_ slighted.”

“He was trying to prove he had balance,” says Satya. “His leg was being troublesome on the walk over here. If he had cared to develop a better replacement, this might not have happened.”

“Right, look, not everybody can just pop things out of thin air. If I had—”

“Had a hand? Sure would be nice, wouldn’t it? I’ll bet it’d do wonders.” Tracer giggles and links her arm underneath his right, pulling him upward into a half sit. “Come on, let’s get you on your feet. Well, foot. Had enough sitting around, yeah? Too bloody hot for this mess. Don’t know about you, but I’m keen on having a splash.”

Satya mimics Tracer and slides her own under his left, curling beneath the muscle of his bicep. Sand sticks to the underside of his arm, but she ignores it. “You know, I told him that keeping everyone else waiting was rude, but he did not seem to want to listen. I think he would still be back in the parking lot if I had not come after him.”

“Hey, all right, I woulda left,” says Junkrat, seeming mildly perturbed. “Well, eventually.”

“Sure you would. Twenty minutes later, maybe.” Tracer laughs, leaning him forward with a strong tug. “Right, here we go: one, two, _three_!”

Satya uses the strength in her legs to rise from a kneel and swing him upward. He grunts beside her as he’s brought to his feet, and after a moment or so of unsteady wobbling, Junkrat seems to regain his equilibrium and shifts his posture into something that is more accommodating of his right leg.

When Satya lets go, she brushes the gritty granules off her arm and glances to his back. To her discomfort, his shirt remains mussed and halfway down his belly, and the entire expanse of his back is cloaked in an ample layer of sand. While he is preoccupied dusting what he can off of his stomach, she has to bury her nails into her palm to prevent herself from reaching out and pulling the singlet into place before clearing off the rest.

“Here you are.” Tracer swipes his sand covered rucksack from the ground and offers it with an outstretched hand. “Oh, blimey, little heavy, though, isn’t it? What’ve you got in there, anyway? Rocks?”

“Leftover scrap, mostly. Couple spanners. Shoved me drawing book in there somewhere. Might be some other stuff. Nothing wired.” He hooks it into the crook of his right arm as he peers over his shoulder and pats the sand off the back of his grungy shorts. “Least I don’t think so. Don’t remember stuffing anything like that in.”

Satya quirks an eyebrow. “And you brought all of that to the beach?”

“Well, yeah, sure,” he says with a shrug. “I mean, didn’t really clean it out at all, but Hog’s got the good stuff, right. Drinks and all that. Don’t mind some scribbling after dipping me toes in.”

“Well, as long as you’re sure nothing in there’s going to explode, I think we should be all right,” says Tracer. She gives the rucksack a pointed look over the lenses of her sunglasses, a somewhat skeptical smirk shaping her lips. “I’d double check on the whole ‘nothing wired’ bit, though. Just in case. Maybe leave it with Roadhog. Something tells me everyone might be a touch cross if that gets dropped and half a store blows up.”

“I beg your pardon—that’s a real generous estimate.” Junkrat slings the pack over his shoulder and tugs the singlet down just enough to placate Satya’s itching compulsions. “I’ll have you know any charges that’d fit into this wouldn’t blow up half a shop. Definitely not. I’d say a quarter. Eh, maybe little more, depending on the shop size and who built it. Still, I’d need more than just a handful. With all the scrap that’s left in there, reckon there’d only be room for, I dunno, two bricks? And that’s pushing it. Right, I’d need something more like this—” He stretches his hands out in a parallel fashion and pulls them apart, implying a very sizable portion of explosives, “—and that won’t fit. Tried before. Take me word for it: stuffing a week’s worth of dynamite in something like that just ain’t worth it.”

Tracer appraises him guardedly. “You know, it really shouldn’t, but the fact that you know all that is a just a teensy bit unsettling.”

“Oi, I’m good at what I do, just like you. I don’t make comments like that ‘bout your flying, now do I?” He claps his hands together to shake off the sand before hooking his thumbs through his belt loops to shimmy up his shorts. “‘Sides, I’ll bet I could rig up those little bombs of yours into something bigger if you just let me have a look.”

“Mm, no, I don’t think so. Nice try, though. You’re persistent; I’ll give you that much.” Tracer pivots on her foot to start back toward the rest of the group, a teasing wave over her shoulder. “Better luck next time, Toasty. Now get a move on, will you? No more handstands!”

Satya frowns in Tracer’s footsteps. While it brings her solace to know she is not the only one he pesters, the implication that he hounds Tracer for a model of her pulse bombs is not particularly comforting. She sets her jaw and presents him with a stern stare, her hands laced with index fingers steepled.

Junkrat, seeming to sense her disapproval, casts her a sheepish glance. “Hey, was worth a shot.”

The rest of the short walk toward the others is spent keeping a steady focus on the foot of the Rock. With her slowed pace for Junkrat’s sake, it becomes more of a difficult affair than she had imagined. If she looks to her right, she knows she will see the rumpled red shirt with sand stuck to its back, and she knows if she continues to dwell on it, she will eventually pause her steps to straighten it up and give him a sorely needed dusting. The desire itches through the pads of her fingers, rooting down into metacarpals and the soft valleys of her palms like a metastasizing disease, and when she makes to trace at her left hand to ease the accompanying thoughts of The Incident away, she is reminded once again that her gauntlet is no longer upon her arm—and she damns herself for her predicament.

Satya sifts into the main pouch of her powdered blue purse. The small grenade shell waits for her at the very bottom between the body of her wallet, a travel-sized bottle of hand sanitizer, a tube of lip balm, and a collection of carefully folded papers. The shell has a smooth coolness to its touch, juxtaposed by the raised, rougher textures of the ivory paint that had been applied to its surface. Intent on keeping it away from Junkrat’s sight, she enfolds it within her palm inside her purse, fingers pressed over the welded edges, and she begins to brush her thumb across its crimson face in slow patterns.

It isn’t her gauntlet, but she supposes it is a more suitable substitute than most.

Junkrat draws up beside her, peering down with a curious air, but she keeps her pace and trains her gaze straight at the line of buildings spread beneath the Rock. She squeezes the shell in her hand, a trickle of trepidation trailing down her spine, and she hopes he will keep his mouth closed for once. Her promise to throw away the shell upon discovery lingers at the far back of her mind, and she finds herself biting at the inside of her cheek; a sinking feeling behind her ribs warns that she would not be able to follow through should he become aware of its presence. The shell smooths against her fingers as her sandals carve the sand, and with a calming breath and the taste of the sea on the back of her tongue, Satya tries to banish the thought.

Thankfully, Junkrat remains quiet. Whether he is more immersed in favoring his leg or composing another proposition for Tracer to relinquish a pulse bomb, she hasn’t the slightest idea, but she is glad for his silence.

When Satya draws up to the rest of the group, she finds Mei and Mercy engaged in conversation with Tracer, who seems to be regaling the tale of Junkrat’s stupendous fall. Roadhog is lying down upon the towel he’d brought, his novel resting atop the great girth of his belly. The squared body of a small cooler sits in the sand just beside him, half opened and with one bottled beverage of some kind pressed against his side on the towel. McCree appears to have taken the contents out of his duffel bag, as he is also lying upon a festive patterned towel, but without the clothes he had been wearing on the trip over. His button-up and cargos are missing (stuffed into the bag, she assumes), and a gaudy pair of American-flaired swim trunks adorn his hips instead, his hat making a reappearance to rest over his face and block out the might of the sun.

To her relief, Mei and Mercy are patient individuals, and only laugh when presented with the reason for her tardiness. Despite Satya’s sincere apologies, Mercy insists that there is no harm done.

“Waiting is a gift,” she says, dismissing Satya with a flippant flick of her hand. “This is supposed to be an afternoon off, is it not?”

“It is,” she agrees, but it does not stop her from giving Junkrat a pointed look.

After Junkrat has been convinced to leave his pack with Roadhog, Tracer leads the way toward the stretch of shops spiking up at the foot of the Rock. Satya must maneuver around other tourists and their occupied spots amongst the sand, following the blur of Tracer’s accelerator in an elegant arc that spears up toward the head of the beach. Bright sunshine soaks through the sand beneath the soles of her sandals, and the hot granules pour in between her toes as she walks by Mei’s side.

Junkrat lingers a decent distance behind, hindered by his leg. She glances over her shoulder to see him scratching at his hairline as Mercy asks a slew of medical questions related to his fall. While Satya cannot discern every word over the chatter of other beachgoers and the continuous swell of the waves rolling in against the shoreline, she can hear enough to extrapolate the nature of each inquiry, especially judging by his replies.

The first several questions pertain to his health—whether he hit his head, whether he had previously hit his head during another incident, whether he felt nauseous or dizzy, whether he landed on any other tender spots—all of which are met with some variant of, “Look, Doc, really, I’m fine.” The next few steer in a more personal direction—was there a reason he decided to do something like this, does he normally go about performing acrobatic stunts on a daily basis, and if so, why would he decide to do so in such a poorly suited environment—and these are met with his voice taking on a higher lilt and asking why a doctor would need to know these things.

“I am merely looking out for your wellbeing,” says Mercy.

“Sounds a hell of a lot like prying to me,” mutters Junkrat.

Satya does not look over her shoulder, but she has a feeling that if she did, she would find Mercy’s knowing smile burning into the back of her spine.

Tracer reaches the very edge of the beach before the others, climbing the zigzagged staircases that lead up to the vibrant strip that supports various seaside restaurants and tourist attractions just above sea level. Satya ascends just behind her, shaking her sandals clean between each step, and she watches as she blinks past a group of locals to appraise the front of a particularly promising establishment. The other surrounding buildings have been painted swatches from an entire palette of colors, struck in hues of pink, blue, aqua, and gold, all rich and garish and with the purpose of drawing business. Signs printed in both English and Spanish are imposed upon bay windows and brilliant storefronts, ranging from quaint cafés to niche knickknack shops and a general goods store or two. The colorful buildings positioned on the higher tiers of the strip appear to be houses rather than shops, and her eyes are drawn to minute faults in their architecture that would prove disastrous in anything but mild weather.

The shop Tracer has been drawn to bears a sunny yellow face, its signage accompanied with a slice of citrus. Mei steps ahead and tugs the white door open by its handle, allowing Tracer and herself inside. The cool unfurling of the air conditioning within snakes around Satya’s ankles as she pauses at the door to wait for both Mercy and Junkrat. He appears to be faring much better now that he is back on solid ground, she notes, although his gait is still a touch crooked compared to Mercy’s elegant stroll.

“Thank you,” says Mercy, nodding to the open door. “It’s appreciated.”

“Think nothing of it,” says Satya.

Junkrat lopes up the small set of stone stairs as Mercy strides inside. A thin sheen of sweat coats his temples, his blond hair disheveled and windswept, and a thorough note of fatigue seems to weigh in the hollows of his bones. As she studies his face beneath the welcome shade of the shop’s colorful overhang, the familiar marks curved beneath his eyes appear darker, heavier without the bright touch of the sun. The remark he’d made concerning her shoulder resurfaces in the back of her mind, and it occurs to her that he must not have slept on the return voyage to Gibraltar—or if he had, the amount must have been very little.

“Cheers,” he says, and he waves two orange fingers at her as a gesture of thanks.

“Certainly,” she replies.

He starts past her, the small pouch hooked at his belt shifting with each step. The scraggly singlet is still partly rucked up above his navel, the back half covered in a layer of earthy sand. His shorts are in much better shape, although scattered grains still congregate along the seams of its smiling patches and outline each one’s stitchwork in thin, tan threads.

Before Satya can stop herself, she reaches up to the middle of his back and brushes off the lingering sand in two swift, downward sweeps. On the final one, she takes the hem of his shirt between her thumb and forefinger and tugs it down to where it rests naturally, just an inch or two above his belt and the sheath of the hard-light blade. The satisfaction of clearing away the debris of his fall is short-lived; a sharp puncture of cold realization shoves behind her breastbone, and she wrenches her hand away with panic laced between her fingers.

Junkrat’s posture snaps impossibly straight. Paused mid-step and with his muscles taut and tensing, he cranes his neck to peer over his shoulder. Surprise scribbles over his mouth and dimples at his brow as he snags a hold of her gaze, and there is a slight shiver that starts somewhere between his shoulder blades. He then tries to twist himself to get a better look at his back, his metal knuckles swiping at a few lingering spots toward the lower contour of his spine.

“You are a mess,” she says, as if that could somehow justify her actions.

He glances back to her, something sly alight in the liveliness of his eyes. “Right, but no black stuff this time.”

“This is true.” Satya rubs her fingers together to unstick the remaining grains from her fingers, lips thinned into a frown. “I feel sand is a rather pleasant alternative to the usual.”

“Maybe I’ll have a roll on the beach after our lovely outings, then,” he says.

“And track sand everywhere?” She pops a hand upon hip as she shoulders the door open, clicking her tongue between her teeth with a _tsk_. “Well, if you insist on doing that, at least I won’t have trouble finding you should you decide to steal my schematics again. There is enough on you to follow your path throughout the entire compound.”

“Ah, ah, _safekeeping_ , not stealing,” he corrects with a raised finger. “There’s a difference. I should know.”

“Difference or not, my point still stands,” she says.

“Standing or not, your point’s exaggerating.” Junkrat gestures at himself, from the stark tan lines on his shoulders to the etched ‘v’ that peeks out between his ruddy shirt and the waistline of his ripped camos. “I’d say this’d only go about halfway. Less, most like. Reckon I’d have to go for another handstand or three if I was keen on decorating the entire base.”

“Perhaps,” she admits, and she finds she must push the image of him upside down and his clothes falling down his body out of her mind. “Even if you managed to collect that much on your person, it would still be preferable to dragging soot. Sand is much easier to clean. Whatever residue your explosives create sometimes requires scrubbing.”

“Sand over soot,” he says, and gives his chin a thoughtful tap. “I’ll have to remember that.”

“That does _not_ mean you can track sand through the workshop,” she says, but he slips past her and through the door’s threshold with a broad grin flashed over his shoulder.

Inside, the distinct scent of coconut permeates the chilled air. Satya allows the door to shut behind her and enters the foyer only to be greeted by a rack of shirts depicting a quaint seascape with the word _Gibraltar_ written across the front in cursive font. For something tucked along the beachside, the shop is far more than what she expects. It is most certainly geared toward tourists and those who came unprepared, she notes, for there is merchandise ranging from swimsuits to sunscreen to towels, supplemented by various Gibraltar- and beach-themed trinkets among the racks and shelves.

Mei, Mercy, and Tracer have already gravitated toward other areas of the shop. Mei combs through various types of swim gear while Mercy makes her way toward a small set of shelves stocked with bottles of sunscreen and other miscellaneous items. Tracer already holds an attractive one-piece drenched in a sunset palette in hand; she kneels on her haunches as she peruses a rack displaying several styles of sunhats, the blue of her accelerator a low burn under the establishment’s ample natural light.

With the help of Mei’s sharp eye, Satya finds a two piece that appeals to her amongst the arrays of available suits on the racks. Its deep sapphire hue and simplistic style is a definite draw compared to the noisy patterns and loud colors of tackier ensembles, and with Mei’s enthusiastic insistence (“This would look _amazing_ on you—and I really mean that, you know!”), there is little room for other choices. A sheer white cover-up catches her eye beside a set of plain one-pieces, and she snags it off the rack as an afterthought.

The stout young clerk clips off the tags after she makes her purchase, and as she makes her way to the small pair of changing rooms at the back of the establishment, she catches sight of Junkrat meandering among the men’s swimsuits with a pair of very orange trunks slung over his shoulder. The fact that he would choose such a garish color does not surprise her at all, and she half wonders if he has eyes for anything other than ratty camouflage and warm hues too harsh for the eyes.

After she shimmies out of her clothes within the squared walls of one of the back dressing rooms and folds them neatly away into her purse, she slides on both pieces of her swimsuit and ties the ends of the bikini behind her back with a meticulous precision. She then slips on the thin cover-up, its ends settling past her thighs and the sleeves reaching down almost to her wrists, and she sidles her purse on over her left shoulder as she slides back into her ivory sandals. A moment is spent combing her fingers through her hair and reapplying it into another low ponytail before she is satisfied. Absently, she wishes she had had the foresight to knot it into a braid, and while the temptation hovers at the back of her mind, she pushes it aside—another time, perhaps.

Before she makes for the wooden door of the stall, she takes pause and halts her steps to stare back at the willowy woman in the mirror. Pitch cascades of hair and lustrous brown skin and chips of chatoyant tiger’s eye all stare back with ferocity, and with her hips well shaped by the cover and the wraps of sapphire to draw attention to what is hidden beneath, it occurs to her that this is a far different woman than she remembers. She isn’t the woman who wakes at six o’clock sharp and is in meetings with her colleagues by eight; she isn’t the woman who talks architecture and potential benefits with clients around the world; she is not the woman who meets with Sanjay Korpal for lunch on Thursdays at just before noon; and she isn’t the woman who catches weekly flights and is assigned to massive projects with hard deadlines and retires to strange hotel beds at night with sleep in her eyes.

Her stare gravitates down to her left shoulder, and then down the length of her arm. No matter how many times she has stripped her gauntlet and tucked it in its case, she presents a strange image without its presence; it is little wonder Junkrat had been so surprised. The thin fabric of the cover-up gives her a slight sense of weight, but it does not do much to offset the delicate twist of anxiety working behind the knot of her stomach. Her gauntlet’s absence should not cause such discomfort, she knows, but it has become a defining part of her since it was presented to her upon her graduation of Vishkar’s academy. Not only does it serve as the crux of her craft, it offers solace and comfort. Without it latched in its proper place, she appears to be another person entirely.

Satya folds her fingers together and focuses on the pressure down her hand. It seeps into her nerves along with the warmth of her skin melding in, and she gives the woman in the mirror a final look. This isn’t the woman she remembers—immersed in something so different from Vishkar’s environment, away from acquaintances and colleagues and in casual swimwear, bereft of the cherished tool that lets her work—and yet, she is not unwanted.

Once she exits the dressing rooms, Satya takes to waiting at the foyer for the others. She eyes the tourist oriented clothing adorning the nearby racks, smiling at the “ _My friend went to Gibraltar and all I got was this shirt_ ” tops tucked between swatches of attractive beach scenes. Tracer is the very first to regroup, clad in her sunset suit and her sunglasses resting top her short waves of mousy hair, and Mei comes along not far afterward, wearing a periwinkle two piece with a snowy white swim skirt hitched around her wide hips.

Mercy takes a touch longer. When she reaches the foyer, she totes along a large rainbow umbrella under her arm with a small bag hooked around her wrist—sunscreen and other essentials, Satya assumes. Junkrat trails just behind her, the orange trunks around his hips instead of the grungy shorts and belt which have taken residence over his shoulder instead. His choice appears to have been sized correctly and fits him very well, although whether that was by intent or by mistake, Satya can’t be sure.

As Tracer and Mei start toward the door, Satya catches Junkrat’s gaze at the edge of her peripheral. It sews a jolt of surprise in the center of her chest, and when she turns her head to dispel the second guesses at her own vision, she finds that he is instead looking very pointedly at the establishment’s floor, as if the scattered grains of sand or the smoothed surface held a far greater interest. His left hand clenches into the material of the old patched camos resting over the plane of his shoulder, his prosthetic fingers scratching across the front of his shirt, and there is a flushed tinge gracing the tips of his small ears. If she hadn’t been looking, she would not have noticed his lagging steps or the abrupt shift of his body language, and his shrinking posture faintly reminds her of how he’d looked in the hangar the morning of the scrap run.

Heat unfurls through her neck as she exits the shelter of the shop, and it isn’t the work of the afternoon sun.

By the time Satya follows Mercy down the seaside strip and makes her way across the beach back to the spot Roadhog and McCree had claimed, Winston has already arrived with the others in tow. She isn’t sure who brought the massive beach umbrella (or where anyone might have squandered it away in the compound), but it is pitched in the sand to McCree’s left, brilliant red blooming above the heads of the ragtag assembly Overwatch has become.

Reinhardt stands proudly in a flashy pair of floral patterned swim trunks, barefoot and hairy-chested and with a generous dab of sunscreen down his nose. He eclipses the svelte form of Ana just beside him, who smiles with folded arms and her braid tucked over her shoulder. Morrison sits by McCree, a pale button up half done and draped over him as he sits cross legged beneath the umbrella. Torbjörn has settled down a short jump away from them both, sprawled out on a plain white towel with his great blond beard entwined into two twin plaits. A sizable cooler has been settled beside him in the sand, and a travel mug is fastened in the metal grip of his prosthetic hand. Satya can’t quite tell, but she’s half certain he brought some sort of Swedish beer with him from the pleased look on his face.

Winston, still clad in his Lucheng Interstellar shirt and sunhat, has brought several his own supplies. While he did not bring a cooler, he did bring a few choice blankets Satya recognizes from her stops by his laboratory to spread out over the sand. A generous jar of peanut butter sits off to the side, just within reach as he pores over a particularly thick notebook chock full of scribblings and a sleek digital tablet containing what she assumes to be notes on his personal projects.

Genji and Zenyatta appear to have made their spot a short distance away from the rest of the group. It is far enough from Roadhog to discourage any encounters, and yet close enough to McCree for conversation. Genji has dressed himself in a set of clothes over the primary pieces of his cybernetic armor: a pair of long cargo shorts hang at his hips, and a baggy grey tee covers the bulk of his chest and arms as well as the faint green glow of his enhancements. What looks to be a large tan sunhat is settled over top of his head, ostensibly to conceal the shape of his helm and the twist of cloth from the crown of his head.

Zenyatta sits by his side in the sand, his shabby golden Shambali robes and trousers absent; instead, a loose purple tee with Japanese kanji written across its front envelops the architecture of his torso, and an equally loose pair of dark track pants hides the mechanics of his legs. It would have been a very good attempt at blending in with the other beachgoers if it were not for his ever-present prayer orbs dispelling the façade.

Mercy pitches the umbrella under her arm down in the sand between Torbjörn and Roadhog, and Satya accepts a towel from her and rolls it out just at the edge of the shade. Tracer spreads one down right beside her and plops down beneath the umbrella, sprawling out to let her lower body soak in the sun. Mei has already followed Reinhardt out to the water; she wades in and waves to McCree and Morrison with a beckoning hand.

As Satya sets down her purse upon her towel and takes the bottle of sunblock from Mercy’s outstretched hand, she watches Junkrat lope over to Roadhog and snag something from the cooler nestled in the sand. Whatever it is, he grabs several, and eats them all on the spot before snatching one or two more and downing those as well. He then tosses his belt and camos over the cooler, sits himself in the sand, pulls up the bright orange over his right thigh, and then starts to unstrap his prosthetic leg.

It is the same practiced methodical process she remembers from when he had reapplied it in the showers: he unfastens both straps, slides his thigh out of its hold, and then unwraps the swath of gauze about the stump. Once completely removed, he twists around to stash it behind the cooler, presumably to keep under Roadhog’s watchful eye. He performs the very same treatment to his arm; it is with less speed, but he retains the fluidity, flicking the straps undone with his thumb and forefinger and prying them away from his bicep before unwrapping strips of gauze from what is left of his elbow and forearm. He tucks the prosthesis by his peg, satisfied, and after clawing off his shirt with his hand and tossing it by the cooler, he begins to scoot down to the water’s edge.

Absently, she wonders how many times he’s maneuvered around without his prosthetics. He seems to be quite adept without them, and as she watches him slide down on his rump to where the sea laps at the shore, it occurs to her that he must have learned to compensate for their loss. She remembers he mentioned the loss of his arm was a long time ago, but his leg must have been more recent, especially if he had tended to it himself. He’s young, Mercy had said. Had appropriate supplements been created right after his limb loss? Or had it been weeks, months, years later?

Satya lathers her arms in thought, occasionally glancing to Junkrat as he flops down and splays himself out on his back among the rolling seafoam. Despite the small pieces he told her during The Incident, what she has overheard, and the sparse things he’s mentioned in passing, she knows very little about Junkrat. She supposes it isn’t more than any of her other colleagues, now that she thinks about it, but it plucks a curious note down the cords of her heartstrings. While it is clear both he and Roadhog were of the unsavory sort prior to their enlistment, she knows next to nothing about Junkertown or his involvement or where he might have hailed from before joining their rugged band of scrappers. He’d scavenged, stole, built, and sold, but the rest is a faded blur somewhere on the outskirts, filled with nothing but assumptions.

The water breathes in, drawing out toward the ocean, and then exhales in a rush, sending cool waves to envelop the sand up to his belly. With the sun brilliant and blinding overhead, he keeps his left arm over his eyes, his knee bent and swaying back and forth to an unheard cadence.

Her mind rewinds back to the rooftop, his breathing, his heartbeat; it rewinds back to The Incident and the warmth of his cheek; and she decides it is best if she remains in the dark.

“Well, this is the life, now, isn’t it?”

Tracer sighs happily beside her, her arms propped up beneath her head and her sunglasses pressed up the bridge of her freckled nose. Her lithe legs are crossed over one another, her orange painted toes wiggling in pleasure in the summer warmth. The harness of her chronal accelerator leaves her back at an awkward angle, but using her purse and hands as a pillow appears to help to offset any discomfort.

“It’s been ages, honestly,” she says, a wistful note shaping her voice. “Not that we came down here much back in the day, anyway, but this is a nice change of pace from the usual post-mission meetings and all that nonsense. I’m glad Winston and the others were up for it. Maybe we ought to make this a regular thing before autumn and winter come around, you know? A good way to decompress before things get chilly. I know it doesn’t get that cold here compared to England, but I still think twelve degrees might be a bit too cold for a swim.”

Satya dabs a blot of sunscreen on the tip of her finger before rubbing it across her cheeks and nose, and she works the remainder onto the backs of her hands. “I am inclined to agree,” she says. “Another visit or two before the season ends would not be unwanted, especially considering recent events. Whether the others would be interested is another issue altogether, but from the look of things, they seem somewhat agreeable.”

Mercy passes by from the shade of the umbrella, shed of her clothes and in the stark ivory suit that was beneath. Satya watches as she ties up her hair and heads down toward the water with graceful steps. McCree discards his trusty hat and follows in after her, relinquishing his spot to Morrison who seems more than content to stretch out and let his bones rest. Mei and Reinhardt greet them both from the water with welcoming cheers.

“Quite agreeable, in fact,” Satya amends.

Tracer leans up to get a good glance at the others. “Definitely looks like it, doesn’t it? I suppose we’ll have to see. Commander Morrison might’ve got a little more lenient over the years. Well, maybe. Meetings are still the same as always.”

“I appreciate the way he conducts our briefings,” says Satya. “He is very thorough in his process. I found myself sufficiently prepared before our trip to Lijiang.”

“Thorough. Well, that is one way to look at it, isn’t it?” Tracer lifts one leg up and rests it at an angle across her other knee, her mouth curved into a wide grin. “Thorough or not, I really hope he and Winston can come to an agreement. I do love the big guy, but they both have two ways of looking at everything. He’s done a great job at leading us so far. Sure, there have been some hiccups—I mean, it would be weird not to expect any, especially with all of us getting back together again after so long, and with a few extras—but overall things haven’t been too bad. I know I’d like it if they’d find some sort of balance between the two of them. You know, the scientific approach Winston takes to our directives, but with some of the… well, _stricter_ protocols the commander had.”

“I don’t know if I would call them strict. His tactics are structured, yes, but they are also intuitive. His experience in this field shows.” Satya squeezes out another dab of sunscreen and begins to smooth it down her legs. “Some things require a certain way of thinking. Winston views things from the perspective of a scientist, where Morrison views things from the perspective of a soldier. When presented with the same objective, they will take different approaches to achieving it. I believe you are correct in thinking a balance of the two would be most beneficial to our team.”

“It would certainly solve a few things,” says Tracer. “I’ll bet we’d be able to go about things much faster as well. Snappy missions done in just a few days, maybe even less, then we’d be back at home base just in time for supper.”

“While I am sure the efficiency of our work would increase, I don’t know if it would be quite that drastic.” She snaps the bottle shut and offers it to Tracer. “I am fond of the idea, however. Torbjörn’s culinary expertise is enviable. Well, assuming outings to the beach do not become the norm.”

“Even if they do, it’d still be nice. Downtime is important.” She accepts the bottle and curls herself into a sit before popping it open and lathering a blot onto her arms. “Don’t get me wrong, I like getting out and about and teaching some smarmy blokes you can’t just terrorize people—it’s just not right, not if I’ve got something to say about it—but all the travelling wears on you after a while, you know? Gets tiring. And I’m not just meaning jet lag, either, though that’s another part of it. Just sort of gets all heavy on you, like every week you’re off to someplace you’ve never been before, and then it’s meeting new people and figuring out new surroundings and trying to find out where you’re supposed to be. It’s great, but it’s bloody tiring. Sometimes all you want to do is have a lie down in your own bed.”

Satya nods in agreement; the sentiment is something she knows all too well with the ample amounts of travelling she has conducted under Vishkar’s directive. In the midst of a hazy fog of hasty embarkments and lengthy plane rides and coffee with Vishkar’s clientele and sleepless nights in foreign quarters, she finds her gaze straying toward Junkrat. He still lies in the foamy shallows far to her left, the water sweeping in to cover his legs and lower belly with each breath of the ocean. Damp sand sticks to the stump of his right arm, and while his hair isn’t entirely wet, more brown granules thread amongst brilliant blond and stark charcoal ends.

His knee pendulums from side to side as the silver needle of a ticking metronome, and the motion reminds her of his when he’d been lying on the hangar floor, foot swaying back and forth and with her hard-light blade clasped between his hands. He’d been intent on refuting Roadhog’s accusations, whatever they might have been, and the insistence tempered through his accent granted a very defensive front. He’d been talking about someone, she remembers—quite clearly, in fact—although she’d never parsed exactly who it was. The nature of their conversation had been unusual, especially overhearing only one side, and Junkrat had seemed far too loath to divulge anything further.

He continues the rhythmic tic as the waves crawl up the shore in gentle turns. The gaudy orange of his swim trunks sidles halfway down his shifting thigh, heavy with dripping water, and reveals a prominent line of tanned skin from where the end of his patched shorts usually fell. She is too far away to see, but a part of her knows there are other marks and moles that dot up his hip and thigh, and jagged starscapes are imposed upon the skies of her mind’s eye.

Satya forces her attention to the plain towel beneath her feet, which lacks both stars and interest.

“You have traveled all over the world, correct?” she asks, now acutely aware of his presence lurking along her peripheral.

“Yup, sure have.” Tracer works a spot of sunscreen along her freckled cheeks. “Being a pilot lets you do a bit of travelling. Went to a few countries before Overwatch picked me up. Of course, being in Overwatch lets you do a bit of travelling as well. Well, more than a bit of travelling, if I’m honest. Being shipped out took me all sorts of places. So, yeah, I’ve travelled quite a bit. Why do you ask?”

“That is what I assumed.” Satya bites at her inner cheek as the morning of the scrap run plays through behind her eyes. “How familiar are you with other cultures’ slang?”

Tracer pauses, nudging down her sunglasses to give a questioning look. “Well, if we’re talking about American slang or something like that, I’ve had a bit of a primer. Jesse’s a proper dictionary. Everybody learns a thing or two from him. If you’re talking about other languages, well, that’s a little more out of my expertise. Most likely I won’t have a clue what you’re on about. Could give it a go, though. I don’t mind.”

“My question pertains to Australian slang in particular,” she says, keeping a focused stare out toward the rolling waves.

“Aussie slang?” Tracer’s brow knits. “What, our resident Aussie giving you a hard time? Do I have to go talk some manners into him? And I will, you know. Burnt toast bomber or not, he’ll act proper with you. I know he’s not the most socially adept bloke out there, but he’s got to at least know how to not be rude.”

Satya waves her hand in a dismissive manner. “That will not be necessary. It has nothing at all to do with him being rude.”

“Well, that’s a surprise, honestly,” says Tracer. “Right, okay, so what is it, then?”

“I overheard him say something about ‘cracking onto’ someone. I’ve never heard of the word being used that way and found it… peculiar. I did not think it would be wise to ask him since it was not my conversation to overhear, but I have been wondering about it.”

“Oh,” says Tracer. “ _Oh_.”

“What? What does it mean?”

“Right, okay, come on, you’ve got to give me some context here. Was he denying it or something? Who was he talking to? Do you know who he was talking about? Come on now, context, context!”

Satya bristles at her sudden enthusiasm. “It was a conversation between him and Roadhog. He was denying the claim, but I don’t know who they were speaking of. Why is any of this relevant?”

Tracer bursts into a fit of giggles. “It’s completely relevant! If he’s cracking onto someone, he’s _hitting_ on them. You know, making advances and all that. Pursuing. _Flirting_. Means he fancies somebody and is keen on chatting them up. And if he was denying that—oh, blimey, I’ll bet he’s got somebody in mind. No way he can’t. That’s _mad_.”

She tugs her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose, and she peers past Satya to watch Junkrat lounging at the water’s edge. A roguish grin claims her mouth, stifling another giggle between pressed lips, and she nudges Satya with her elbow.

“Right, so, who you reckon it is?” she asks, craning her neck to survey the rest of the team members scattered about the stretch of beach. “Come on, you know it’s got to be somebody here. It’s got to be. We’ve all been working together for the past, what, nearly two months now? It’s been about that long, hasn’t it? Well, since he got here, anyhow. Close quarters and teamwork make an awful nasty concoction for something like this. If he fancies somebody, I’d bet almost anything it’s one of us.”

“Somehow I think it would be rude to assume he has romantic interest in one of our teammates,” she says. The implication in and of itself lances a sharp blade of discomfort by her lungs, and something particularly twisting sours in the pit of Satya’s stomach.

“Oh, come on, now,” says Tracer. “It’s just a bit of fun. It’ll be just between the two of us. Promise. And even if he does fancy somebody, it’s not like we’re going to nose about his business. Whatever’s going on there, he’s got to work it out himself. We’re just speculating. I mean, if he was denying it, he could’ve been telling the truth. Still, people always get sticky about that sort of thing. Could’ve just been covering up.”

Satya does not like this. She does not like it at all. And the fact that she does not like it makes everything that much worse. The concept of Junkrat holding romantic interest for one of the Overwatch members sits _wrongly_ with her, like a fundamental flaw she had just discovered among one of her prized designs that is too ingrained to fix, and it burrows down under her skin to gnaw at her nerves.

“Bloody hell, what if it’s Doctor Ziegler?” Tracer looks out toward the ocean, squinting behind her sunglasses. Mercy is floating beside McCree in the shallows, along with Mei and Reinhardt close by. “You know, I’ve seen him pop in and out of the infirmary a few times the past couple weeks. She’s brilliant, pretty, got a good sense of humor. I’ve seen her laugh at some of his jokes as well. Wouldn’t surprise me at all, if I’m honest.”

She is only treating him, she wants to say, but Satya keeps her mouth shut with a thin frown.

“She might not be his type, though,” Tracer concedes with a shrug. “He jokes with everybody. I mean, I really only see him when we’re all at dinner, so I don’t know who he hangs around with besides that giant fellow. Seen him laughing a few times with Jesse, though. Maybe he’s into blokes instead?”

“I really do not feel comfortable discussing a colleague’s sexuality or romantic interests,” says Satya.

“Oh.” Tracer slides up her sunglasses into her hair, her countenance contrite. “Hey, look, didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable or anything. Just thought it would be fun to guess is all. I just imagined him getting all giddy over someone and… well, it was a nice image, I suppose. He’s a scraggly thing with some weird interests, getting all burnt and stuff with his bombs, but never thought him the type to fancy anybody. It’s sort of like… oh, I don’t know. Like seeing your mum with somebody new, or maybe the distant uncle who always shows up to family gatherings alone just shows up one day with a girlfriend or something. Just odd.”

Satya glances over to Junkrat, who continues to lie sprawled out at the water’s edge. The waves lap at his foot as they roll in and seep into the shore, and although she cannot see his face from the distance, she imagines a contented expression across his sharp features. As if by impulse, Satya’s fingers glide from her lap to find the primary pouch of her purse at her side, and she slips her hand in to find the grenade shell buried at its bottom. She lifts it out and smothers it in the fabric of her towel where Tracer cannot see, and she begins to rub across its surface with the pad of her thumb. Its textures bring a sliver of comfort, but it does little to assuage the jarring thoughts of Junkrat somehow courting another person—if what he would do might even be considered courting.

“I see what you mean,” she admits at last. “I suppose I would not have imagined him in such a way. He has always seemed so invested in explosives that it would leave little time for romantic pursuits. I doubted that was something he even considered.”

“Well, the same could be said for anybody, really,” says Tracer. “I’m sure Commander Morrison and some of the others have fancied people before. Just never had the opportunity, right? I don’t know if it was anybody here, but back when Overwatch was in its prime, we had a lot of contact with all sorts of people. You know, big shots from the UN and stuff like that. Met high ranking officials and got to know the people around where we’d be stationed, or maybe we’d be set out on contracts to keep people safe, and you’d get to know them that way. There was a lot of travelling, a _lot_ of bloody travelling, but there had to be sparks somewhere. Working together like that, close and personal, saving lives and all. Tough work, but you bonded with a lot of people whether you liked it or not. And I don’t mean just in a romantic way, either, though I suppose that might’ve been a small part of it. Things happen when crises arise. Everyone bands together and we grow. Some people grow apart, some together, and a few get all intertwined.”

Tracer pulls her legs in and crosses them over one another, her hands climbing up the harness of her accelerator. She gives it a tug, as if second guessing its tightness, and then affords the glowing construct in its center a poignant smile. She poises one palm in front of it, the fierce blue light pooling in the shadows between her fingers, and then raises her gaze toward the ocean.

“There were a lot of terrible things that happened,” she says, nostalgia rumpling her brow. “I won’t ever forget them. Never. But things turned out better than they could have. The Slipstream incident was absolutely terrifying, but it let me meet Winston. His brilliantly clever fuzzhead built this thing and stuck me in the proper time. And because of what it can do, it let me into the rest of Overwatch. I became more than just a pilot who went missing for months on a botched test drive. I became a _real_ agent of one of the most incredible organizations of the century. I met more people than I could remember, people all over the world—freedom fighters and civilians and the Shambali and world leaders—so many bloody people. It was tiring, but it was good. And I’m glad, you know? I’m glad I met so many people. Grew close to a lot of them. Grew together. Made friends.”

Satya kneads the small grenade shell among her fingers in circular patterns, her prints pressing against the welded seam and across the painted smile and the ‘x’ eyes. A soft twinge of homesickness brims under her heartbeats, a faint yearn for Utopaea’s glinting spires and Sanjay’s coaxing encouragement and José’s lopsided smiles and the familiar gleam of Vishkar’s hard-light halls. Client negotiations and overseeing construction on various projects were interesting ordeals in their own right, but the people she’d met during her time in the academy were ever sources of comfort and familiarity after a grueling stint in another country.

And somehow, half a continent away, she has managed to make new acquaintances—at least one of which considers her a friend—and a new space for herself in their midst. She has forged herself a purpose in this motley assemblage of old and not-quite heroes, wedged her presence among people with different beliefs who happen to share a single goal, and it presses a flicker of warmth among her bones.

“I feel similarly about the people I have had the opportunity to meet,” says Satya, rolling the grenade shell around the flat of her palm. “Especially here, among all of you. It was due to unfortunate circumstances, the wake of the coming war, but I do not regret choosing to participate in this movement. I believe it has been beneficial for everyone.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say it quite like that,” says Tracer, “but yeah, I think it has in some respect. The more the merrier, right? I know I’m sure glad you decided to join up. I won’t snub having someone like you on our side with your teleporters and shields and all that, but the chance make another friend in all of this is just as good.”

“You mentioned friends.” Satya taps on the crimson casing. “Perhaps it is just how I interpreted it, but your previous comments lead me to believe there are more than friends included among those you grew close to. Would I be correct in that assumption?”

Tracer settles her hands over the knobs of her knees and heaves a light sigh. “Sort of,” she admits. “It was nothing like what I have with Winston or Jesse or any of the others. Not really. They were passing things, you know? Small and in between. It’s not like I was really good friends with any of them.”

Satya’s gaze drifts to Junkrat as he lazes in the shallows. “Why were they not friends?”

“It’s… complicated.” She tugs her sunglasses out of her hair and scratches at her scalp with bright orange nails. “You know how we were talking about the whole travelling thing? Popping about from country to country on deployments, and how there were probably sparks, but there just wasn’t the opportunity? That was it, more or less. Even though there was a lot of travelling, I got a spark or two. One I remember was when I went to the States. Met her when I was stationed over at Grand Mesa for good six months. She was the bookish sort, you know, all glasses and smarts and loose jumpers. Kept in contact for a while, but things tapered off when the world’s situation got rougher and we all got shipped off to all sorts of places. Never had the time to keep up. Ended up fancying some bloke a while back as well; met him while I was in Russia for a couple weeks. He was more the rugged type. Never went anywhere, though. Was just flirting and all that. Seemed like a nice guy. Would’ve liked to get to know him better, but things just… never turned out that way. For either of them.”

Tracer thins her lips in thought as she stares out at the water. The soft caws of seagulls accompany the droning chatter from other beachgoers and the swelling waves.

“Right, so, what about you then?” she asks. “I mean, you went through the whole travelling deal, didn’t you? Well, if you don’t mind me asking, of course.”

“Me?” Satya traces her nails against the pads of her fingers as her other hand entertains the textured grenade shell. “I did not exactly… entertain those kinds of relationships. There was little room for significant others when I was growing up. Vishkar’s academy focused on preparing us for what lay ahead, and that was what I did. I prepared.”

Tracer frowns. “So, wait. Hang on. You haven’t had any relationships at all? Never fancied anybody? Not even a little crush?”

“Well, no,” she says. “That isn’t true. I have felt things for other people. Not many people, but it was still something I experienced.” Satya squeezes the shell in her palm, her fingertips smoothed along the seam. “I did hold a brief relationship about four years ago. It did not last. I was recently promoted to a fully-fledged architech within the past year, someone who would be expected to work on their own and without the guidance of a mentor, and learning how to incorporate new responsibilities into my role was a learning process. I travelled far too much, and the amount of time Vishkar required of me took away from what I could give to my partner. The time we had together was enjoyable, but our lines of work were too different, and long distance was not something we could pursue. It was ended mutually.”

“Yeah. I hear you there. Seems like travelling for work’s always got that little hitch to it, doesn’t it? Makes it awful hard to keep up friendships and all that if you’re out and about popping from country to country all the time. Next thing you know, it’s been four months since you’ve rung your mum and she’s left you about fifty messages asking what time you popped off to and whether you plan on being back anytime soon.”

Satya laughs into her hand. “Well, I suppose that would be a concern with you, now, wouldn’t it?”

“Oh, you’ve got no idea.” Tracer sighs and flops back onto the towel. “Mum’s a mad little lady with less than progressive views—omnics and all—but… ah, she means well. At least I think she does. I don’t talk to her as often as I should, honestly. Next time we’re around London, I need to pop by and see how she’s doing. She’s not the best cook, but she makes some bloody good meat pies. Cottage pies especially. You ever had any of those?”

“I cannot say I have,” says Satya. “At least not in the same respect. I’ve been to London a number of times, but I don’t remember meat pie ever being present on the menu.”

“Well, take it from me: they’re amazing. Really tasty stuff. I guess it’s just England or maybe us Brits in general, but just about everyone I’ve asked outside the UK says they’ve never had a meat pie before. Even Jesse said he’s never had one. Well, he said he’s had _pot pie_ and before, but that’s not the same thing. Not really. They’ve got cottage pies there as well, but they don’t call them that. They call them something like shepherd’s pies instead.” Tracer tucks some stray fringe aside and bobs her shoulders in a shrug. “Americans have weird tastes.”

“I suppose they do,” says Satya. “I was sent to negotiate a development in the city of New Orleans several years ago, and I remember the cuisine there was definitely strange. The seafood was quite delightful, though.”

“Not too fond of seafood, but I’ll take your word for it. If we ever get prawns or anything like that, you can have mine.” Tracer laughs as she slides her sunglasses back onto her nose. “You know, with how good Torby’s cooking is, I really wish he’d make a proper breakfast every once in a while. I mean, I don’t mind all the stuff he does for supper. No matter what it is, it’s always good. But with the sort of skills he’s got, a good English breakfast in his style would be fantastic. I really miss stuff like that sometimes. Not that food in other countries isn’t good, because it is, but it’s just not the same. Nothing like your favorite meal back in your old stomping ground.”

“There are a great number of dishes I miss,” says Satya. “The foods available in Gibraltar are good, and I do appreciate Torbjörn’s cooking, but there are some things I miss from my home country as well. Vishkar’s employee canteen was not the best, but I could still find simple things like _idli_ for breakfast if I stopped by on the way to a morning meeting. It was not often, but every now and then, some of my acquaintances from Tamil or Karnataka would take me along, and we would purchase ingredients from one of the local markets after work. We would take over the canteen in the evening after everyone had left their offices for the day and try to cook some of our favorite meals from home. We made _Dum ka Murgh_ once. It was nothing like my mother’s.”

A faint pang of nostalgia creases at the edges of her heart as she envelops her hand over the grenade shell. Its surface is warm from the heat of the sun, the polymer casing smooth on its halves under her roaming fingertips. The distant faces of her workmates and fellow architechs blur in beneath the shadows stretching across her legs, and the intangible visage of a dark-haired woman with a firm smile and pinched worry lines lingers at the outskirts of her memories.

It has been far too long.

“Symmetra,” says Tracer.

“Yes?” she replies.

“We could always try to make it here, you know. What was it again? _Dum ka Murgh_? I haven’t the faintest what it is, but you could teach us, right? And if you don’t remember everything, we could always ask Athena. I’m sure she’s got recipes somewhere, or she could at least look them up for us.” Tracer leans up on her elbows, a hopeful grin accompanying the hazel of her eyes behind her shades. “I mean, I don’t see why not. It’s a brilliant idea. There’ve got to be shops here that carry some of the same sorts of spices. It can’t be that hard. And who’s to say we can’t order something like that for our shipments, right? C’mon, what do you say?”

Satya does not resist the smile creeping in. “I think I would like that very much.”

“Brilliant,” she says, and claps her hands together in triumph. “I’ll bet Miss Amari and some of the others would love to help as well. Jesse might be a little bit finicky, but I’m certain he’ll like it in the end. He always does.”

Glancing out to where McCree, Mei, Reinhardt, and Mercy are drifting out in the ocean waves, Satya leaves the shell buried amongst the folds of the towel to lace her hands.

“American tastes might pose an issue,” she says. “It looks like we will have to see, won’t we?”

Tracer flashes a mischievous wink. “Definitely.”

The afternoon ticks by with surprising slowness. Mei returns from the ocean long before the others, complaining of pruned fingers and of McCree being far too liberal with his splashes. A little while later, Ana pops over from Morrison’s spot to further inquire about Tracer’s wellbeing and whether Satya’s arm had stopped hurting (it had). Once satisfied, she saunters away over to Genji and Zenyatta, offering Reinhardt and the others out in the water a passing wave. Winston pads by not too long afterward, plopping down beside Tracer and Mei with his sunhat and asking about late lunch options with a jar of peanut butter in one great paw.

By the time Reinhardt, McCree, and Mercy plod back to shore, Winston is taking to-go orders for one of the seaside restaurants up on the strip below the Rock. After a brief look at the menu on Winston’s personal tablet, Satya settles on a serving of fish and chips before passing it off to McCree’s awaiting hand. Both Torbjörn and Morrison seem content to remain in the shade, undisturbed by the allure of food; Torbjörn entertains mugs of what Satya now has become _very_ certain is some flavor of beer, while Morrison hides his jagged facial scars under his arm and dozes off beneath the sanctuary of the umbrella.

As Tracer bemoans the unparalleled amount of prawns available in Gibraltar, Satya sheds her sandals and white cover up and heads toward the water. If everyone is going to eat, she might as well take the opportunity to enjoy the water, even if it is for a short while.

She steps away from the others and passes Roadhog by at her left. He appears unfazed by the heat and brightness of his surroundings; he has become a quiet mountain with his book, occasionally moving to grab a bottle out of the cooler and lift the black snout of his mask just enough to drink from its contents. Far, far to the right, Genji and Zenyatta sit apart from the group in their civilian clothes, Ana knelt beside them in the sand. From this distance, if she hadn’t known better, she might have mistaken the two for humans.

The wet sand gives way to her footprints, and the waves roll in with a gentle touch. Cool seafoam spreads in around her toes, contrasting with the polished coat of azure over her nails, and then slinks backward toward the ocean as it gathers its children and whisks them close to its body before releasing them out to unfurl across the shore once more. She wades in with sure steps, the pleasant temperature of the waters engulfing her legs and knees, and then up to her hips and waist as she draws further out. The movement of the current is not as strong as she expected, but she appreciates the power it shows, and lets the waves coax her back and forth among their watery backs.

When turns about and glances back toward the beach, the first thing she notices is not that half the group is huddled around Winston and his digital menu. It is not that Roadhog has grabbed another drink from his cooler or that Zenyatta has offered Ana a golden prayer orb. It also is not Torbjörn polishing off another mug or Morrison rolling onto his side and swiping McCree’s hat from his duffel bag.

Instead, the first thing she notices is that Junkrat is no longer lying down in the shallows. He has forced himself into a sit, halfway hunched, shoulders lax, his good leg bent at the knee. His left hand rubs at the stump of his right arm, as if phantom pains gnawed at the scars with pinprick fangs. His blond shocks of hair are mussed and wild, sunken toward the back of his neckline where the water has left its mark. The streaks of pale skin left by his harness frames his chest far too well, and as the water rushes to the shore and foams up his thighs, it occurs to her that his leg has stilled the meticulous tic it held from before.

The final thing she notices is that he is not staring at his hand, or his knee, or the sand, or the shallows—but at _her_.

A familiar chill cinches down her lower back. The morning of the scrap run bleeds back into the forefront of her mind, toting pink ears and a straight spine against the side of the motorcycle as Junkrat vehemently looked elsewhere. The tang of motor oil lingering in the hangar, the note of shock in his eyes after The Incident, the sullen look he’d given when she retrieved her blueprints, the heaving of his chest as he held her on the rooftop—everything clambers in with sudden ferocity, with warmth at her back and scents of blast residue and soft earth and chilled metal by her mouth and the pressure of his arm crushing her close, and she tries to shove it back.

Overwhelmed, Satya shuts her eyes, sucks in a breath, and allows herself to sink below the waves.

Water latches through the thickness of her hair and slides its palms over her ears. The delicate thrum of the ocean swells around her body, imprinting its rhythm upon the soles of her feet and cradling her at the bends of her knees and the crooks of her arms. With oxygen held captive in her lungs, she lets her toes graze the sandy floor and the water lap just overhead, and she channels her inner focus toward other things: the intricate architecture of her teleporter base spread across sheaves of blueprints; the empty canteen kitchen with Jaithra, Eesvari, Maraan, and the half-made stew simmering on the stovetop; the quaint dumpling shop with Sanjay as steam rises on the outside pavement; the sharp visage and ornamental bindi of the Bharatanatyam instructor she once visited as a child. The _mudras_ race under her fingertips, and she poises her thumb, forefinger, and middle together as if her gauntlet still stretched down her arm and she meant to bring a hard-light creation into reality.

When the need for oxygen begins to ache behind her ribs, she plants her feet among the silken sands and crests the surface of the water. Drawing a sharp inhale to sate her lungs, she dabs the saltwater from her eyes with her wrist and combs the loose tail of her hair back behind her shoulders. Her eyes snap over toward the beachside once again, fully expecting Junkrat to respond like how he had behaved in the hangar, but he doesn’t.

Instead, Tracer has consumed his attention. Knelt beside him in the shallows, she has Winston’s tablet in hand and appears to be showing him the menu choices with swipes of her finger. Junkrat peers down at the screen with interest, leaning on his good hand to keep him steady as he cranes over to have a better look. After a moment or two, he mentions something to Tracer, and she pops up with a grin and a jovial “You got it, Toasty!” before making her way back to over Winston. Junkrat waves his thanks before curling back up into the water, this time turning his stare at the soft clouds of foam and the wet sand beneath his leg.

As Satya watches him out of the corner of her eye, her thoughts turn to the conversation he’d shared with Roadhog in the hangar, and Tracer’s benign commentary on the focus of romantic pursuits begins to gnaw at the back of her mind. Junkrat’s vehemence against whatever accusations Roadhog had made was a clear indication he hadn’t wanted to broach the subject to begin with. Roadhog, on the other hand, had apparently held every intention of broaching said subject, and deemed his charge’s feelings on the matter entirely inconsequential. The insistent protests of _she ain’t like that_ plaster against the inner film of her ears, and there is a souring in the bottom of her stomach as she considers Tracer’s speculating.

She must be right, she thinks; there is no way she couldn’t be. It has been about two months since Junkrat and Roadhog had been contracted to work in Winston’s recall initiative, which is more than ample time to develop emotional attachments. The group has primarily kept to the outpost between deployments to retain a low profile, as the Petras Act is still a real threat, and has therefore limited everyone’s exposure to others down to a bare minimum. Chances are, she broods, if Junkrat had developed an interest in anyone here in Gibraltar, it would undoubtedly be a member of their own team.

Discomfort crawls under her lungs at the very idea, and the more she dwells on it, the more bothered she becomes. The language of his own denials restricts the viable candidates, so the available set would consist of Mercy, Tracer, Ana, and Mei. Ana could be removed from the equation due to her very recent arrival, she supposes, and Mei could be removed due to her limited contact with both junkers altogether. Tracer admitted that she barely sees him outside of meal situations, so that would eliminate her as well, which leaves Mercy as the only remaining candidate with any close contact. If the infirmary visit Satya overheard were any indication, her only goal is to treat Junkrat and to encourage him to take better care of himself—and that is ignoring all suggestive observations concerning both Satya’s interest in him as well as her ongoing predicament—effectively rendering Mercy and the others as noncandidates.

Frustrated and deeply unsettled, Satya draws in a breath and makes her way out farther toward the ocean. The water smooths out in rippled sapphire glass and the current becomes less intense as the sandy floor slopes away. She then orients herself parallel to the shore, focuses her strength into her legs, and starts to swim. It is more difficult than the still indoor pools she has become accustomed to, but she navigates the water with slow, precise breaststrokes and a firm cadence, and she tries to ignore the churning in her belly.

Thankfully, fatigue settles in and edges her discomfort aside. It has been far too long since she has exercised this way, and pushing herself to swim along the length of the Catalan, even in such short bursts, is an exhausting affair. Fighting the natural sway of the current and correcting her path consumes great amounts of energy from her already shallow reserves; her stamina wears thin, and she finds herself pausing to float closer to shore, letting her toes sink into the sand and allowing her arms to rest from treading water. When her strength returns, she nods back out on the waves, steering away from other swimmers, and continues her route down the shoreline. Fatigue creeps into her legs and abdominal core with every stroke, and her shoulders succumb to a subtle ache from the telltale touch of exertion. The smell of salt lingers at the back of her mouth between needed breaths, nose-wrinkling in its potency, and the dryness of her throat soon becomes a demanding presence.

Parched, spent, and sore, Satya lets the movement of the waves coast her toward the shore. It isn’t quite where she started, but it is closer than where she had projected her stamina would take her, and she concedes that walking would be a less demanding exercise than swimming the final distance. As she washes up into the shallows with the soft pressure of the current, she sinks her feet into the malleable ground and tries to let her equilibrium to settle. The water curls back, wrenching its buoyancy with it, and the unfortunate weight of gravity clenches in among her legs. A part of her intrinsically reaches out to conjure something to support herself with, but the nakedness of her left arm registers halfway through gesturing _kataka-mukha_ , and the symbol coils into a crushed fist.

The trek back to the others is relatively short. She follows the path of the damp sand soaked by the sea, planting prints in her wake and sidestepping around gaggles of small children. Cool foam laps up to her ankles before drawing back out again, eroding the shapes of her soles upon the shore, and gooseflesh ripples down her arms at the caress of the chilly breeze against her skin.

Ahead, it appears both Tracer and Winston have returned from the strip beneath the Rock with everyone’s orders in tow. Fragments of conversation well up over the rhythmic sound of the surf. McCree, Mei, and Mercy cluster beneath the protective shade of the umbrellas, holding plastic to-go boxes and cradling cardboard baskets filled with hot chips in hand. Torbjörn sips from his travel mug and munches on breaded shrimp while Reinhardt snags a drink from the cooler to accompany his ordered melt. Ana sits over by Morrison, offering him a bite of salad with a plastic fork, and bats away McCree’s hat with a smirk. If Satya squints, she thinks she can make out Genji in his floppy sunhat with a basket of his own in hand, but the angle makes it too difficult to see.

Junkrat has moved from the water’s edge over to the back of Roadhog’s cooler, curled up by his discarded prosthetics and the beige rucksack. The small notebook she’s seen him with is poised on top, a whittled pencil sitting on its cover. His left elbow rests on the cooler’s plastic lid as he works on a generous chunk of battered fish. A white takeout box sits in his lap, balanced on the bent crook of his knee, and he plucks choice pieces from its contents to scarf them down. Sand clings to the callused underside of his foot, the thick of his calf, the sharpness of his ankle, and she’s sure it sticks to the contours of his back and the plateaus of his shoulder blades as well. His time spent in the shallows has left his sides and stomach damp, his skin sporting lingering drops and rivulets as the warmth of the sun kisses them away.

Intrusive thoughts trickle in. Satya bars them back with all she can muster, but it isn’t enough. There can be no room for this, she thinks; there can’t, there _can’t_ , and she knows it, but everything still slinks through, undaunted and unhindered and untouched like shadows seeking shelter from a vast and distant beacon, and there is nothing she can do to stop it. The Incident is too mortifying, too fresh, and the intimate way he’d felt beneath her on the rooftop with the percussive drum of his heartbeat against her ear rouses too many things she’d have rather left dormant. Her thoughts turn to how he’d looked while soaked and dripping on the shower bench, how he’d kept her close in Roadhog’s sidecar with his metal arm hooked around her waist, how he’d called her _dynamite_ and _friend_ and stared down at her from Lijiang’s skyline with crackling intensity kindled in his eyes, and her body succumbs to a soft shiver.

Stoic and focused, Satya passes him by and avoids the movement skirting along her peripheral. She routes toward Tracer, who seems to be preoccupied with one of Winston’s stories beneath the umbrellas, but a spell of hoarse coughing from behind her makes her take pause. She retains a stern mask as she affords a glance over her shoulder; she turns just enough to watch Junkrat attempt a labored breath only to fall victim to another short fit of lighter coughs.

When he notices that he has an audience, Junkrat forces down a hard swallow and knocks his fist by his sternum. His shoulders scrunch inward and his foot starts to tap and his awkward grin spurs things it shouldn’t.

“Wrong pipe,” he manages, voice sculpted with a particularly rough twinge.

With the sun burning down beneath her skin and too many thoughts of him plastered across her mind’s eye, Satya directs her attention back toward the others and continues her path. The less contact she has with him right now, she thinks, the better of she will be. Unfortunate situations have continued to place her in his immediate proximity since their first meeting, holding especially true since The Incident, and if she truly wishes to extricate herself from whatever this _friendship_ has become, she must do her due diligence and reinforce the boundaries she’s established for herself. It should be easy enough—and it is, in theory, as it always is—but reality is a fanciful and quixotic beast with its own grand design, one she can only hope to pluck pieces from and spin into her own personal pockets of the universe, and she swears her desires must go against whatever has been envisioned because if she’s being perfectly honest, she has _never_ been so abysmal at something such as this.

Satya bites at the inside of her lip and sighs. If only staying away from him weren’t so _difficult_.

The rest of the afternoon slips by with iridescent daydreams, distant birdcalls, paintbrush cirrus wisps, the hum of adjacent chatter, and the sound of sleeping waves in the aftermath of a lazy lunch. Sunshine marches across the sky on its last auroral breaths, and begins to sink toward the Rock as the day runs its course. Satya rests under the umbrellas until a warm hand pats at her shoulder, coaxing her back from half-conscious dreamscapes spilled with buckets of bleary reveries and fractures of Vishkar’s corporate offices scattered amongst their pale canvases. A man stood among them, entrenched in the dark grasp of a sucking void and haloed by ruptured stars, but she can’t remember his name.

Tracer, Mercy, McCree, and Reinhardt start to gather up their supplies. Satya collects the towels, shakes the sand free from their backs, and folds them into appropriate travel sized squares to tuck into Mercy’s bag. As both umbrellas are withdrawn and personal belongings are stowed and coolers are packed, Winston takes his blankets, notebook, and tablet, and leads the first group back toward the parking lot. Zenyatta and Genji disappear with him, along with Morrison, Mei, and Torbjörn (and his beer). The others follow shortly afterward, setting up shop in an empty parking spot to wait for Winston’s return.

Satya chooses to avoid them. Instead, she dons her white cover up, slips down past the parking lot, beyond the protective guardrail wedged between the pavement and the sand, and stands at the edge of the slope that curves down to the water. With her purse tucked over her left shoulder, she rolls the small grenade shell around between her fingers, passively listening to the faint conversations held among her remaining teammates. From the sound of it, Tracer and Ana are immersed in talking about the golden days of Overwatch, while Reinhardt and McCree are sharing more stories of the adventures they’ve had over the years since McCree’s departure and Overwatch’s eventual disbandment. A part of her feels displaced, an outsider, as if she did not belong here among these people and their interconnected pasts brimming with shared victories and defeats, but the smooth textures of the shell rein in her thoughts with each pass of its surface beneath her fingerprints.

None of it matters, she thinks, the painted smile under the curve of her thumb. What matters now is what lies ahead; what matters is building toward a better future, and thwarting the onslaught of the coming war. Pasts and past deeds and prior memories have no bearing here. If it holds true for Jesse McCree and his criminal youth, then the same must hold true for her and the rest of Overwatch.

The familiar sound of a boot and peg striking the pavement snag her out of her thoughts.

“Oi.”

Something cold settles on top of Satya’s head.

Clasping the shell in her fist, she shrinks down to avoid the unwanted intrusion. She twists aside to see Junkrat, clad in his singlet and swim trunks, holding a plastic to-go cup filled with what she assumes to be some sort of tea. The liquid inside is not the usual color she would expect; instead of something dark brown or the pinked raspberry from _The Tea Leaf_ , whatever is inside holds the bright color of cream, dispersed between scattered bodies of dark pearls collected along the bottom.

“Is that what you have been telling me so much about?” she asks.

“Maybe.” Junkrat shakes the cup encouragingly. “You gonna take it? ‘Cause if not, I’ll keep it.”

“I hardly think that will be necessary.”

Satya reaches out and plucks it from his prosthetic hand. It’s chilled against her palm, a rich and pleasant coldness, and welcome relief from the warmth of the fleeing afternoon. She gives it a swirl with the wide-mouthed straw to further mix the pearls before giving it a testing sip. The taste is very mellow, she finds, far more than the other teas she’s sampled, and with a delicately sweet undertone that appeals to nostalgia and childhood. It is nothing like the Darjeeling she’d purchased and nothing like Ana’s Koshary tea from Cairo, but its flavor is enjoyable nonetheless.

She draws another sip, and she chews at the cold jellylike pearl that comes up the thick of the straw. Its texture is odd in the back of her mouth, but not unpleasant. Coupled with the sweetened creamy taste, she can understand why he has such a fierce fondness for the drink.

“Didn’t know what kinda fruit you like,” he says, stirring at the tea inside his own cup. “They got all sorts there at the stand. Had ‘em listed up on the board. Mango, strawberry, passion fruit. Think they had pineapple and coconut as well. Maybe apple. Don’t exactly remember the rest. Weren’t too sure what you’d think was good, so didn’t bother with it this time around. Just thought the first one should be the normal stuff. Don’t mean it ain’t good, though. Fruit just adds something nice. Different taste.”

“It is quite good as it is. Knowing you, I expected it to be much sweeter, but this is very pleasant.” Satya pauses for another drink and allows the next tapioca pearl to drop back down the straw. “I think I would be interested to try mango or coconut in the future.”

“Yeah?” He takes a swig of his tea and settles back against the guard railing. “I’ll remember next time. Mango and coconut don’t sound too bad.”

Satya only nods, and allows the swelling sounds of the surf to saturate the silence between them. The grenade shell in her left fist has become a sharpened focal point of her attention, compounded by the proximity of his presence, and a coil of worry spins in somewhere just above her lungs. She could lift the shell back into her purse, but the movement to open its primary pouch would be too obvious. She could drop it behind her in the sand and pick it up again once he leaves, but that runs the risk of making noise and attracting his attention. She could keep it enclosed within her fist, but that leaves her with no free hands, and if she should accidentally let him see—

“I suppose I should thank you,” she says, squeezing at the shell. “You were true to your word.”

Junkrat swallows a mouthful of tea. “I was?”

“It was your turn to pay.” She affords him a stern stare. “I assume you _did_ pay for these.”

“I did, yeah,” he says.

“Did you really?”

“Oi, what’s the look for? I said I did. You saw the little card, right? I didn’t go accosting no tea stands. Well, least not this time.”

“Should I be calling you Xavier, then?”

“Sure. If you want. I won’t mind it.” He gives the tea in his cup another stir, focused on the clustered pearls decorating the very bottom. “Though Mister Arkwright’s got a nice ring to it, don’t it? All elegant. Refined. Don’t fit me much, but reckon at least it’s something for putting legit stuff together.”

Satya sips from her straw, the shell clenched tight between her fingers. “I think I like Mister Fawkes’s ring a little better.”

“Yeah?” Junkrat’s brow dimples as he watches the tea churn back and forth in the plastic container, and the corner of his mouth threatens a smile. “Well, don’t blame you much there. Xavier’s not exactly in Fawkes’s territory. Got a leg up. He’s some pommy bloke in London. Posh suit, slick hair, the works. Saw him at a jewelry shop. Got his wife a nice string of diamonds for her birthday. It was a real corker of a necklace; had rocks as big as my thumb. Reckon he had some bloody deep pockets for carats like that.”

“Does this Xavier steal from jewelry shops as well?” she asks, casting him a disapproving glance.

“Oi, I didn’t go accosting no jewelry shops, neither. Was just having a look. Ain’t no harm in that.” He chews thoughtfully on a tapioca pearl. “I had eyes set on something bigger, anyway.”

“Something tells me I would rather not know the rest.” Satya taps her thumb on the side of the to-go cup. “So, Mister Arkwright has a wife?”

Junkrat nods as he indulges in another drink. “Yeah. And pretty, from the sound of it. Said she was worth more than all them diamonds. Musta been a real bombshell.”

“I was referring to your Arkwright,” she says.

“Oh.” He shifts against the guardrail, bending his left knee to relieve the pressure from his peg, and his metal hand clamps over the back of it for better support. “Nah. Nothing like that. He’s some ruddy bachelor. Got his nose stuck in stocks.”

A contemplative noise hums in the back of her mouth as she takes another sip.  “Money,” she asks, “or explosives?”

“Both.” Junkrat grins, popping off the lid of his cup to coax a few more tapioca pearls up with the end of his straw. “Having some extra axle grease means better quality stock. Gets you the good stuff, right. Nice casings. Real fine powders. Makes a better bang. Not too big a difference, but gives it just enough spark for something bigger.”

Junkrat scoops up one of the little black jellies and tries to bring it to the lip of the cup, but it appears to have a far different idea on how to spend a late summer afternoon; instead, it drops back down into the creamy blend below with a gentle _plop_ and reunites with its brethren. Eyebrows beetling into a scowl, Junkrat pokes at them with his straw before trying to trap one at its end and bring it up the side of the cup.

“You are trying too hard,” she remarks, watching with amusement. “Why not just drink normally?”

He continues to prod at the jellies. “I like ‘em, all right? They’re the best part. Always liked picking ‘em out.”

“Perhaps a spoon would be more suited to the task,” she suggests.

Junkrat brings the cup up to his lips, tilts it just enough so that the tea does not spill, and herds the tapioca pearls toward him with the end of his straw. He manages to pop two of them into his mouth with the help of his tongue, but the others sink back down to the bottom of the container. Regardless of their loss, he seems satisfied; he swallows the splash of tea and chews on his prizes with a pleased smile.

“Or you could do that, I suppose.” Satya is suddenly reminded of how he had treated the piece of cake on the morning she had accompanied him on his scrap run, and she wishes she hadn’t been. The image of his tongue catching the side of his mouth to lick away lingering chocolate fixes itself at the front of her mind, and she must avert her focus to the swell of the ocean in attempt to reroute her train of thought toward more favorable avenues.

“See? Don’t need a spoon.” He raises the cup for another try, and captures three more on the flat of his tongue. “Straw works just fine.”

“So I see,” says Satya, quite intent on not seeing at all.

With her tea cup in one hand and the grenade shell in the other, she lifts herself from the guardrail and steps down the slope toward the ocean’s edge. She slides out of her sandals a good distance before the water flows in, just enough to ensure they won’t be touched, and strides out to the thin foam bubbling over the sand as it slinks back into the waves. The cool, damp ground beneath her molds to the undersides of her feet, and when the water glides back up the shore, its chilly fingers press in between the spaces of her toes and by the blue paint of her nails.

Junkrat’s footsteps come from somewhere behind her. The pause between each step is delayed—the deeper sand by the guardrail, she assumes—but he works his way down the slope and slides down to join her. She glances over her shoulder to watch; instead of discarding his shoe and dipping into the edge of the shallows, he hangs a step back and sinks down into a sit at her right, good leg tucked in and prosthetic pitched in the sand and bent upward, supplying a place to rest his arm.

His presence feels strange, she thinks. It isn’t unwanted, but it still feels _strange_. She does not know if The Incident is all to blame, if the rooftop is another culprit, if the scrap run should have been avoided, or if Tracer’s absent musing about his potential romantic interest has added yet another contributing factor, but the feeling of him being so close is what she can only describe as odd. Half of her desperately wishes to avoid him and plunge herself into the pristine looking glass of the ocean, while the other half wishes to remain and… do _what_? What could she even expect to do? Talk? Reminisce? Sit in silence and just _be_? She doesn’t know. The desire is too complex for her to parse, and she is left sipping at her tea out of pure mechanical repetition to help better guide her thoughts.

Satya sifts her toes through the wet sand, relishing the refreshing splash of the water, and takes a long step backward, just out of reach of the rising tide. Cognizant of the painted shell clutched in her left fist, she crooks her leg beneath her and lowers herself beside him in an elegant sweep. She leaves one foot outstretched, crossing the distance between her and the foaming surf, and the water curls up to the flat of her heel before retracting back to sea.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” she asks, shrugging off the strap of her purse and guiding it into her lap.

Junkrat’s shoulders shrink together in surprise. “Does what?”

“Not being able to swim.” Satya watches as the curious fingers of the ocean glide back up against the smooth, compacted sand that sculpts the shore. Waves roll in like pages pressed upon the earth, their ink pouring in the spaces between rocks and seashells and tiny granules, carving their strength into the world. “I assumed lacking such a skill would be difficult. Australia is a country surrounded entirely by water, after all. And judging from what you’ve said, you have been to the beach in the past. Knowing how to swim would be very useful. Doesn’t it bother you?”

Junkrat sets his cup in the sand, nestled against the bend of his leg. His thumb and forefinger fix the lid back into place and punch the straw down to the bottom before giving it a light stir. He works his jaw back and forth, as if he were chewing on another tapioca jelly, but Satya knows better.

“Maybe it does,” he admits. The straw has become his focus, and he guides it in gentle swirls. “Not like I was near the water a whole lot. Junkertown ain’t nowhere near the ocean. Never had to worry about it. Me and Hog took a long ride to heaps of places, but not like water were really part of it. Well, no—‘cept for that one time. That was different. But that was on a boat, right, not swimming or any of that, and not real far. Didn’t have no problems with it. The rest of the time, we stuck inland.”

“I believe that part has changed,” she says. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yeah. Reckon so. Seeing as how we’re living just off the beach here now. Sure, we’re up in a rock most of the time, but the shore’s just a jump down the road. Or cliff.”

“And then there was rescuing Mei,” she murmurs.

“Right. Yeah. And there’s that.”

Junkrat’s fingers gravitate from the straw to his left leg. They slide up the lean muscle of his calf and begin to work jagged patterns into the knob of his knee. The raised knolls of his knuckles and the paths of working tendons shape the back of his hand, and the charred color of his nails is bordered by the peach of new growth down at the cuticle base. His metal forearm rests over his other knee, settled over the hinge and between the two orange plates, absently flexing their mechanics between breaths.

“I don’t really mind heights,” he says, eyes fixated on the shimmering waters. “Never got scared of ‘em like everybody else. Being high up’s better. Gets you places faster, right, and lets you have a good look around. Goes double for cities. You can vouch for that, now, yeah?”

Satya’s hard-light bridges glisten in her mindscapes, the strength of the Mediterranean sun scorching down over brick and stone and concrete. “I suppose I can,” she says. “I was not exactly a stranger to the concept before, however.”

“But that’s how it is, innit? Looking out over everything. You start small, like some little shack out in the sticks, then the next thing you know you’re hanging off some tower in Sydney. S’just got a feel to it, y’know? Always liked crawling up on roofs, even as a little ankle biter. Don’t know why. Hell, even Mum had to—” He pauses, eyebrows knitting together with something she cannot pin, and then says, “Well, point is, being something up like ten, twenty, thirty stories never bothered me. Felt kinda good. Even the tingling I’d get in me hand and foot weren’t bad. But falling outta Snowball’s ship really got the ol’ ticker going. I don’t mind water like this, either, right, all nice and shallow, but something ‘bout diving in when there’s _kilometers_ of the stuff right below you just sort of…”

Junkrat trails off, his eyes focused out to where the ocean touches the horizon’s edge. While not quite sunset, the shadow of the Rock looms over the shore from behind, and its massive form slides across the beach with each breath of the waves. His grasp on his knee loosens; his hand slides down to his ankle as he curls inward, shoulders hunching, backbone arcing, his gaze lost to sea.

“It don’t feel too good,” he says at last.

Satya takes a sip from her cup and glances up to the sky, the vibrant blue above soaking into something cooler, darker, heavier, tasked with bringing the cover of night upon its coattails. “It was not a pleasant experience, no,” she agrees. “Still, I would like to think the both of us emerged from such a harrowing ordeal as stronger individuals. There is a popular saying in English—something about how what does not kill one makes one stronger—and I believe that may apply in this instance. We faced something horrible, but we did not die. We conquered it. And we moved forward.”

“Oi, I didn’t do no conquering there,” he says. “Falling like that? Couldn’t do a damn thing. You’re the one who yanked us out.”

“And I did not conquer on that rooftop, if you recall. That was your work.” Obscured by the white fabric of her cover-up, she maneuvers the grenade shell between her fingers at her side. She traces the lines of its grinning face, and the thin echoes of smoke and gunpowder latch onto the ends of the breeze and wrench her back onto fractured concrete and beneath pale morning skylines. Her heart plays a crescendoing drumbeat. “I owe you a great deal of gratitude,” she says. “When that man brought me to the edge of that roof and let me go, I didn’t think I would survive. I would have fallen if you had not intervened.”

“Nah, no worries. Like I said, right, dropping from that high up’s a real nasty way to go. Not too keen on Symmetra pancakes unless you’re the one who’s cooking ‘em. And ‘sides,” he says, brow creasing, “he called you useless. Wanker deserved a lovely dive off the side.”

Satya turns her gaze to him, lingering far too long on the etched line of his collarbone and the thick muscle through his shoulders. “You have a strangely fierce loyalty,” she remarks.

“What?” Quirking an eyebrow, he meets her eyes with a soft, questioning look.

“You hold your friends in high regard,” she offers instead. “I have never seen anyone quite so… _passionate_ about their friends.”

Junkrat shrugs. “S’all we got, innit? Don’t have family. Reckon friends’re close enough.”

Satya picks up her tea from the sand and gives it a testing shake. The distant longing for Vishkar’s familiarity and her colleagues’ presence aches like old scars before a rainstorm, hooking deep with phantom claws, and a part of her wonders what Sanjay would make of her newfound companionships.

Laugh, she supposes. Mister Korpal was always a businessman before he was a friend.

“Well, well, now _there_ you are. I was wondering where the two of you wandered off to. Are you having a good time?”

Startled, Satya whips halfway around to see Ana leaning on the guardrail of the parking lot. Her thick white braid rests down the front of her patterned sundress, the burnt umber of her left eye regarding them with sly amusement. Ana lifts one hand from the rail to wave, and does so with a smile.

Junkrat leans back on his elbow and returns the salutation with his metal hand. “How ya going, Nan?”

“Very well, thank you,” she replies. “How about yourself?”

He plucks the tea cup from its nest in the sand and presents it with a shake. “With this? Never better.”

Ana chuckles approvingly. “That’s good to hear. And how about you, Symmetra?”

There is a hot flush down Satya’s neck, and she doesn’t know why. “I’m quite well,” she says, “if not a little tired.”

“Aren’t we all? I know my old bones are aching for bed after the past couple days. Sometimes I second guess my choice of retirement. Well, I suppose now is as good a time as any to let you know that Winston has returned from the watchpoint. The rest of us are loading up the car.” Ana takes a quick glance over her shoulder, as if to check their progress. “You should hurry along so you don’t miss the ride back. It looks like we’re about ready to leave.”

“Thank you,” says Satya. “I will be up in a moment.”

“I’ll let Winston know. See you shortly. And I suppose I’ll see you in the hangar, Junkrat. Drive safe, won’t you?” Ana brings her hand flat to her forehead in salute, and then draws away from the guardrail to return to the others.

When Ana is out of sight, Satya tucks her left arm through the strap of her purse and settles it back upon her shoulder. She shifts herself onto her knees, and then, taking the half empty to-go cup in hand, she rises to her feet. Something that is equal parts habit and compulsion guides her to dust the sand from her legs, and reflex opens her left palm to brush behind her thigh. By the time she realizes her mistake, it is too late.

Before Satya can stop it, the grenade shell slips from her fingertips and plummets down to the ground by her feet. It makes a soft _sff_ as it strikes a burrow in the sand, and it snags Junkrat’s attention with alarming haste. She freezes in place as he stares at the little crimson sphere, her limbs transmuting to thick bundles of wet concrete and laden stone, and when his eyes widen in realization, the violent burn of mortification begins to sear against her skin.

Tentatively, he reaches out for the casing with his left hand. He scoops it up into his palm, brushes the damp sand away with his thumb, and turns it about so the grinning paint greets him with its customary smile.

“I didn’t think you liked ‘em,” he says, his voice soft and low and clutched by the waves.

Satya’s nails dig into her lifelines. They carve delicate curves into her skin and seem to sting down to aching metacarpals and pockets of clustered nerves. The bareness of her arm slices through her senses and the sea breeze runs its hands across every inch, clawing down to her wrist, her knuckles, and the azure of her fingernails. A hammering thumps on the insides of her eardrums, and perspiration kisses at her temples with anxiety on its mouth.

“I never said I didn’t like them.” That does not sound like her, she thinks. It’s hoarse, like she’s been holding her breath for far too long, like she’s just broken the ocean’s surface and come up for air, and she doesn’t like it. With pinching pressure against her palm, she clears her throat and works down a swallow. “They are primitive, but well crafted, just like the rest of your work. They have a certain… charm.”

Junkrat regards the shell as he rolls it between his fingertips. He inspects the welded seam, the white paint, the artistry of its face, and taps his prints across its surface as if it he somehow expected something other than the tinny noise of a hollow casing. A golden molar glints at the corner of his wide smile, and he looks up at her with what she can only describe as _warmth_.

“Charm, yeah? Sounds familiar.” Junkrat flicks the shell into the air and captures it again in his fist. He then holds it out to her, grinning face first, poised between his thumb and forefinger. “Don’t mind a bit of charm.”

Satya accepts the shell without a word. It is still warm in her palm, crackling with his body heat and from her own, a cindering coal meshed into the sanctuary of her hand. She bites at the inside of her cheek and nudges open the primary pouch of her purse, ushering Junkrat’s creation inside with its face left branded upon her fingers. The fires beneath her skin and the blaze that claims the column of her neck are stoked by the mischievous glitter in his eyes, and she is painfully aware that his proximity is the closest he’s been since the rooftop—and The Incident just before.

She should have left the shell back on her nightstand, she thinks. It would have been better if she had.

As Satya locks her discomfort away and reclaims her sandals, Junkrat hoists himself to his feet behind her. The plastic cup gives a crinkled protest against his metal hand, and the soft shifting sounds of sand brushing off of skin, metal, and fabric shortly follow. She ignores the damp granules caked in between her toes and starts to head up the slope toward the parking lot, her fingers clasped tightly around the strap of her purse. His uneven footsteps linger in the reach of her shadow, but she resists the urge to look over her shoulder.

When she crests the small hill and passes the rail onto the sunbleached pavement of the parking lot, she finds the dark body of the jeep hovering over by Roadhog’s motorcycle. Winston’s elbow pokes out the driver’s side window while Reinhardt and Ana lounge outside one of the opened passenger doors. McCree and Tracer seem to have already climbed in; Tracer’s idle chatter drones over the radio, and Satya thinks she can discern the broad shape of a hat through the rear window.

Before she makes it halfway across, a gentle tap between her shoulder blades jolts a crackle of lightning down her spine. She pivots a half turn on her heel, and Junkrat’s nearly emptied cup meets her at face level.

“Catch you back at the Rock,” he says, fluttering his fingers in a farewell. “Eh, or maybe not. Y’know, if you’re keen on having a lie down. ‘Specially after all this. I reckon half the team’s gonna conk out before sundown.” A yawn catches his jaw, and he shudders under its strength. “Hell, I might join in.”

“That would be a wise decision,” she replies. “In fact, I think this might be the first time I’ve seen you retire at a reasonable hour.”

“Is that right?” He swirls his cup, his mouth adorning the curve of a crafty smile. “Funny. I don’t think you got much room to talk, Satya _‘I go wandering about the base ‘round midnight and have tea with Nan at three in the morning’_ Vaswani. None of that’s really _reasonable_ , now, is it?”

While partly stunned by the riposte, her focus shifts to her name. The way he says it is odd, she thinks; sharp and hot and with a twang. It is thoroughly shaped by his accent and how he sounds his vowels, and, barring the part of her that wishes to correct his pronunciation, the rest is overcome with a latent desire to hear it spoken again.

Satya scolds herself as she pushes the thought aside. Scrounging for a witty rebuttal is fruitless; nothing comes forth—she is too bloody _tired_ for this—and she is left looking at a smug disaster and his tea cup.

“Touché,” she concedes at last. “My sleeping habits have lacked consistency over the past several weeks. Perhaps I should turn in early as well.”

“I think that would be a wise decision,” says Junkrat. His voice has adopted a much higher octave than usual, and he applies a prim mimicry of what she can only assume to be her accent. To hear him speak with properly enunciated words and to somehow do so without running his entire sentence together is nothing short of a miracle.

Satya provides him with a cutting smirk. “I don’t think you’ve got much room to talk,” she retorts, imitating the very best Australian accent she can muster. It quite isn’t as good as she anticipates—not nearly enough emphasis on certain sounds, she thinks—but it suits her needs well enough.

Junkrat stands there for a good, long moment. His mouth hangs half open as if he meant to reply with some snarky counter, but his throat is still and there is no voice to speak of. Metal fingers patter at the plastic surface of the cup, _tap-tap, tap-tap_ , and his left hand twists into the disheveled front of his shirt. Perhaps it is the competitive spirit starving down in the hollow of her chest, but his countenance flushed with surprise is such palpable satisfaction that she might clench it in her palm.

Unfortunately, the spell of astonishment doesn’t last. A broad grin dawns upon his face like an aurum sunrise, pleasure crinkling at the corners of his eyes, and a fit of raucous laughter topples his attempt at proper posture. Scattered freckles wrinkle over the bridge of his nose, and his two golden molars glitter between the rest of his teeth as he succumbs. Nothing about him should be so contagious, she thinks, but Satya finds herself stifling a snicker behind her left hand in spite of herself.

“Hah, now _that’s_ true blue,” he says.

She side eyes him with faint amusement. “Somehow I think you’re exaggerating.”

“Me? Nah. Never. No idea what you’re on about.”

“Oh, please. I told you, Junkrat, I am not deaf to sarcasm.” Satya reaches up with one finger and pokes the very end of his nose. “And for your information, your interpretation of me could use some work. Especially on your inflections. Perhaps you should open your ears and use your mouth a little less.”

“Less, huh?” Junkrat rubs at where she’d touched with a knuckle. “I can think of a few other uses.”

The heat smouldering in her lungs begins to center somewhere far lower. “I am going to assume that implies tea,” she says.

“Well, sure. I mean, if talking’s off limits, I’d rather have this and some of them little jellies. ‘Specially on days like this.” For emphasis, he sips down the last of the creamy drink and licks at the side of his mouth. He then peers disappointedly down at the bottom of the empty cup and gives it a displeased jiggle. “Might pop back for a few. Stick ‘em in the fridge once we get back.”

Satya draws a steady breath and tries to shove the image of his tongue behind the folds of her other thoughts. There are more important things in need of her attention, she thinks, although none of them come to mind, and she tries to ignore the warmth gathering in her lower belly with great effort.

Wordlessly, she turns her wrist to present him with the rest of her drink in her outstretched hand.

Junkrat eyes it with cautious interest. “You sure?”

“It’s clearly your favorite,” she says, hoping that will serve as sufficient justification.

“Oi, you just want my gob busy with something else.” He grins, all sunshine and stippled stars and burning madness, and he accepts it eagerly. “Don’t matter. Mine now, love. No take backs. Next one’ll be good enough to keep, though. Promise. Mango, right?”

“Or coconut,” she says.

“Right, yeah, that’s it. Coconut. Mango or coconut. Next time.” Junkrat sips from the straw and chews on one of the tapioca pearls, a degree of uncertainty casting across his countenance. “If you want, that is.”

It feels as if something has taken a hold of her heart with squeezing hands and has tucked it into a cage far too small for its size. Words sear down the length of her throat, _yes_ and _please_ and _perhaps_ and countless others she’d rather keep burning, and her intended answer has caught itself on the backs of her molars. Content to let them exhaust themselves into cloaks of ash, she replies only with an affirming nod before turning back toward the jeep.

“Hey, wait.”

Not two steps have been taken. A familiar tingling sluices down the curve of her back as she pivots on her heel.

“You still… you still got the other one?”

Junkrat makes a small gesture with his left hand. He shifts his thumb and forefinger back and forth, back and forth, about an inch apart, mimicking the round body of a grenade shell held between them. Satya studies him, his wild shock of hair, the lean muscle of his sunbronzed shoulders, the tiny gap between his shirt and the waistline of his trunks, the speckled sand clinging to the fabrics of his clothes, and the warm amber of his eyes. His expression is something strange, something hesitant; stern eyes and a set jaw and a straightened spine. She’s seen him like this before, right in the adrenaline choked moments preceding combat, when blood runs hot and danger crackles on the outskirts, and she can’t parse its meaning.

“I do,” she says, and the letters char at the roof of her mouth.

Satya does not wait for a reaction. Nails kneading into the palm of her hand, she leaves him be and crosses the remaining length of the parking lot toward the jeep. The sand between her toes and sticking to her legs scratches at the edge of her awareness, but she sets her focus on the pressure of her fingers, the heels of her sandals striking against pavement, the stirring of the wind, the warmth from the sinking sun.

Reinhardt meets her at the open vehicle door, one massive hand outstretched. He grins as she places her palm in his—“Careful now, my friend!”—and he lifts her in with staggering ease. Ana, she finds, is already further down the seat, eyes closed and hands folded in her lap. A clean towel has been stretched across the back to catch any lingering sand, although whether the credit can be attributed to Mercy or Ana, she doesn’t know.

Ana opens her left eye at Satya’s arrival. “You looked like you were having fun.”

“It was a very pleasant afternoon,” she says, and wishes the thump of her heart were not so thunderous. “The weather was nice, and so was the water. I enjoyed myself.”

“That’s good to hear. I’m glad Lena’s idea for a small holiday was effective.” Ana takes a quick glance out of the rear window. “I think he enjoyed himself as well. I might be missing an eye, but I’m quite certain that’s a smile.”

Something sharp drops in her stomach. Satya opens her mouth to comment, but before she can muster any sort of retort, Reinhardt settles in the seat ahead of Ana with a great shift. His thick white mane crests the surface of the ceiling, and he’s forced angle his legs for a better fit—much to McCree’s displeasure. She gives Ana a dark and withering look, but the old sniper ignores it.

Once everyone has been buckled in and accounted for, Winston coaxes the jeep out from between Roadhog’s motorcycle and another vehicle, and then glides out of the parking lot. Satya is left squeezing her purse as unease encircles her shoulders. The small body of the shell can be felt through its smooth material, and while a part of her takes solace in its presence, the rest is struck numb. Various chatter from Tracer, Winston, and McCree accompany the cheery tunes of the radio, and try as she might, she can’t direct her mind to stay focused. The lingering heat soaking through her skin turns her thoughts to Junkrat, and a ravenous burn curves down beneath her stomach.

“Are you all right?” Ana’s voice comes from beside her, soft and questioning and laced with a touch of concern.

Satya realizes she must still be frowning. Lips pressed together, she smooths her expression into something more neutral and tries to bury herself in the movements of her hands. The pressure against her purse allows her to feel the small shell, but its textures are obscured.

“I’m afraid the exhaustion of our mission must be catching up to me,” she lies.

“I see.” Ana nods, her fingers laced together in her lap. “Well, I would suppose that is a good thing if you really think about it. Tired means we will rest well tonight. Nightmares should be few and far between, and maybe we can get a good amount of sleep for once.”

“You may be right,” says Satya. “It would be nice if that were the case.”

“It most certainly would. Perhaps today was a gift to let us rest up before what is to come.” Ana reaches up and absently traces her fingers over her eyepatch. “I think it’s best if we treasure times like this. They don’t happen that often, and I’m sure they’ll continue to dwindle as things run their course. I fear to think of how things are in London. If Russia is any indication, they may start to get worse very soon.”

“They might. But we will pull through.” Reinhardt peers over his shoulder, his blind eye staring back with pearlescent white and framed by the blade of a sharp scar. “We will always pull through,” he says. “We are together again. We are _strong_. We have faced worse things before, and we will pull through. Of this I have no doubt.”

“We’re a mighty force to be reckoned with, to be sure,” agrees McCree beside him, tipping the edge of his hat.

“More than that, I’d say.” Tracer cranes herself around the front passenger seat. “We’ve come through just about everything so far. What’s to stop us from all the rest?”

“A lot, actually,” admits Winston, “but we’re formidable. Always have been.”

“Always have been,” says Ana.

“Always,” says Reinhardt.

Satya runs her thumbs down the side of her purse.

“Always,” she repeats.

Junkrat is right, she supposes, just as he always has been.

Friends aren’t family.

But they’re close enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art that has been made for this chapter by SUCH AMAZING LOVELY PEOPLE on tumblr -
> 
> @lindigo - [swimming](http://lindigo.tumblr.com/post/154109073643/i-am-trash-varg-writes-wrote-a-goddamn-beach)  
> @kjmartinet - [seaside](http://kjmartinet.tumblr.com/post/154181492222/read-vargrimars-your-body-is-a-weapon-over-the)


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi I'm still alive and here's something after three months. I promise it's worth the wait! There are probably typos I missed, but honestly I'm so tired of looking at this thing I'll get to them later :V Enjoy the M rating lmao
> 
> _Lost with a cause_   
>  _someone wrote down on a paper_   
>  _that defines all the lines that we draw_   
>  _But we don't understand what's unstable_   
>  _Maybe we're all lonely and afraid_   
>  _Maybe we're all trying to find the words to say_
> 
> _Maybe the world isn't crazy_   
>  _[Maybe it's you and I](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ugqDi4IknZo) _

Satya dreams of Junkrat’s mouth upon her wrists.

He’s hunched over top of her, nestled between her legs, prosthetic hand clamped into the bedsheets by her ribs. The warmth of his body pools down onto her skin; it soaks down her belly and into shivering nerves, encouraging a deep thrum of want through every fiber. The calluses on his fingers are coarse over her knuckles and across the valley of her palm, but the softness of his mouth against the inside of her wrist is more than satisfying compensation, and she finds her body trembling in reply. His teeth are gentle and teasing, his tongue blindingly hot, and a molten path is left in his wake as he trails light kisses down the length of her arm. When he reaches the crook of her elbow, he gives one last peck placed at the juncture, and he then lets her hand go.

It drops beside her like brick upon pavement, the aftermath a line of faint cinders. The weight of him shifts sweetly against her as he coaxes her other hand into his metal fingers. The familiar white sheen and black grips cover the entirety of her arm, and even though she knows there should be a layer of resistance between the gauntlet itself and her flesh beneath, it seems to have somehow stopped existing. He says something above her, something low and husky and drowned in the muffled atmosphere of the dream, and he brings his mouth against the watery blue crystal embedded in her palm. Welcoming heat carves through cut sapphire and churning mechanics and the curved lines down her hand. Each breath sketches tender echoes of frisson beneath her skin, and as he moves from her lifelines to the heel of her palm and down to the underside of her wrist, he traces delicate intricacies and sharp joint lines and glinting metal and textured mesh. The sensations bleed through her gauntlet and web down her arm in spun wreaths; each kiss is a plume of flickering fire.

Try as she might, Satya cannot move. Paralysis clings to her limbs in numbing static. She wants to lift her right hand, to touch his face and comb her nails through the wildness of his hair, but it has been encased in layers of heavy stone. Her legs share a similar state, cemented into a trembling stasis; bent at the knee and bowed outward, they allow him to sidle his thighs by just below her hips and press against her with slow and tantalizing pressures, peeling apart her composure and ushering out the ragged, primal thing that lies beneath. His mouth might be kissing patterns down her arm, but a very distinct hardness is flush with the juncture of her leg and groin, and her entirety crows for closer contact: please, please, she _needs_ this.

“ _Satya_.” It’s exhaled against her, a cherished note clutched between his teeth, the sounds branded against his tongue as he sinks a kiss into her neck. He rocks his hips against her, his erection constrained by the fabric of his shorts, and no matter how much she tries to will him closer, nearer, _please_ , he lets her thoughts sluice down his back without a care and sucks at a tender place by her collarbone.

The compulsion to say his name in return mashes back behind her teeth—no, not _Junkrat_ , not the mantle Junkertown bestowed; she wants his real name, his _true_ name, the thing he seems to dislike so much and keeps squirreled away in odd pouches and volatile vials—but her jaws remain clenched together and locked tight, and so _Jamison_ remains trapped by a dead mouth that cannot whisper, sigh, or moan.

And she wishes she could moan. Everything seems to burn as she lies beneath him; he is so close, his body pressed to her in shivering fire, and yet he is not close enough. Want coils tight into living coals and ignites beneath the firm touch of fingerpads and the flat of his tongue and the teasing grind of his hips. Each passing moment is almost unbearable, like the flames harnessed in the hollows of his bones are not satisfied with one body alone, like they can’t be sated with only the vessel of their disastrous host, and so in their avarice they vie to drop down her tongue and devour her from the inside out—and yet, in spite of everything, she continues to exist, _still_ , wet and aching and enmeshed with the desire to take him by the jaws and _kiss_ him but she _can’t_.

Jamison whispers something else into the nape of her neck. There is no mistaking his voice, but the words are decidedly nonsense; he murmurs on in scattered splices of accented Telugu and English, thick and laden with shaking lust. A distant part of her understands, or somehow translates their meaning (“— _I want you so bloody bad—c’mon, lemme have you—need you, need, need, need_ —”), and she is left with unfettered desire jolting through her at every press of his mouth upon her throat. If she could somehow muster the will to pry the words out from behind her teeth, she would gladly give permission to his gravelly chants, but her voice has been locked away, caged down in the space between her lungs by something she can’t control.

Slowly, his left hand slopes from her shoulder to the smooth plane of her belly. It slides in tender lines by the curve of her ribcage and the dip in her navel, gliding down to the ache pooling between her hips. Whatever clothes she might have been wearing appear to have made themselves scarce; the warmth of his palm cups flush against her without hindrance. His skin sings electricity into the soles of her feet, crackling up in taut muscles and curled toes, and his touch acts as shards of flint to awaiting tinder.

Sparks coalesce in her lungs as two fingers slip down. Feathery light and painfully slow, they test and tease and still deny her what she would rather have. Need incites a ruthless, crawling ferocity, and the lead in her arms sloughs away beneath its whim. Enthralled and furious and wanting so much more than he seems intent to give, she snaps whatever invisible bonds have kept her paralyzed. Satya reaches up, frames her hands along his cheekbones—his skin is warm, so incredibly warm; the sun must surely seek refuge in his body—and she guides him down to meet her. His mouth is far hotter than it had been upon her wrists, like he’d somehow swallowed a splitting star that had thrust its inferno through his veins, his bones, his heart, and she drinks in laving fire as he grins against her and leaves scorch marks on her tongue.

“ _Satya_ ,” he breathes, “ _this ain’t gonna last forever, y’know._ ”

She bites his lip in reply. _It can. I can make it._

His laugh sounds too far away, as if resounding off the surface of invisible walls. The warmth of his touch retreats from between her legs, and instead she finds his hands lining her jaws with a strange gentleness. The birthmarks and freckles flecked across his cheeks draw her gaze—and somehow, his eyes seem different. They are the vivid color she remembers, but brighter. The world around her is washed out and wrung away to yield a monochrome expanse, and his eyes seem to blister among the whorls of white and grey.

“ _Satya_ ,” he says, but it isn’t like before. His accent has shifted, like he’s trying to mimic her mother tongue— _Saa-tee-yaa_ —and it sounds divine.

All of her pines to reply in kind, but her throat hurts from the inability and her lips remain sewn shut. Squeezing her eyes closed, she leans her forehead against his, the hot pull of the flames curling back through her hair, and she breathes everything in. A part of her expects the harshness of smoke and ash and chemicals, but there is nothing but disheveled earth and the warmth of him against her mouth.

“ _Satya_ ,” he says once more, and it pours into her like syrup filling a mold—it swells back behind her chest and drips down her fingers and pools down below her stomach and sinks around her toes, heady and pleasant and greedy—

And it’s then that she jolts into consciousness, her name a murmured echo.

The chrome ceiling of the barracks greets Satya with the bright sheen of midmorning. Her room is just as it was left the night before: her purse hung on the back of the chair by her desk, her swimsuit and beach clothes deposited in a small hamper toward the back corner beside her wardrobe, her sandals at the chest by the foot of her bed, the translucent white cover-up draped on the wardrobe’s handle. Everything sits in gentle quiet, backed only by the distant churn of the watchpoint’s electricity and other mechanisms threaded behind the walls, and the reality of the situation begins to set in.

There is no one on top of her. There is no one whispering her name. There is no one kissing her wrists, her neck, her collarbone. There is no one grinding against her and guiding his fingers with the promise of further fulfillment. There is no Junkrat and there is no Jamison Fawkes. There never was.

And yet her body trembles. It’s as if his fingers still climbed at the ladder of her ribs, as if his mouth still pressed hot starbursts against her skin, as if dream and reality were indiscernible and she were somehow suspended between both worlds. Lingering shocks trickle down her lifelines and splay across her sheets as her mind steeps in the dazed and heady blur of what felt all too real. The sensation of him being so close sticks to her nerves, painting down her arms, her legs, her stomach, and it provides a heavy dose of adrenaline that brims hotly through her veins. A throbbing heartthrum pulses in her ears, drumming and drumming, always drumming, and she releases a hot exhale in disbelief.

Well, then.

That… happened.

A smiling thief came to her in her dreamscapes, kissed her, stole her name, and left her a horribly flustered mess. And not only that, he left her wanting more.

Yes. Yes, that describes it well enough, she supposes.

And she doesn’t quite know how to feel about it.

While Satya has had her own fair share of dreams (those of this nature included), she does not ever remember having them about someone she knows so little about. She’s dreamt of coworkers, of those she once held feelings for, of her family, of the friends she once had as a young girl, of all of these people who at one time posed as important fixtures in her life, and she fully expects them to appear in her dreams. But a madman she’s known for barely two months? And in this context?

Satya pulls down the covers and relishes the feel of the cool air. A damp film of sweat clings down her back and between her breasts, and unlike the fiery man who had paid her a visit, she comes to realize that the demanding ache coiled down in her lower belly is not another ephemeral figment. It is very real—inconveniently real, she must admit—and no matter how she tries to shift her primary focus to the light cast across the ceiling, the lamp set upon her desk, the complete inventory of her wardrobe, it does little to dispel her physical discomfort. She is quite aware of what will, but she refuses to use the plethora of Junkrat-centric imagery etched into her thoughts as fodder for self-pleasure.

… Not that she isn’t tempted.

Perhaps the stunned silence from her conscience should bother her.

Drowsy, bewildered, and not exactly in the mood to parse the deep meaning behind Junkrat fingering her or kissing patterns against her neck or breathing her name, she wrenches back the blankets and slides out of bed. Groggy and rattled as she is, the day is new and there are other things that require her immediate attention. Winston had scheduled a heavy mission debriefing at eleven o’clock before everyone had retired yesterday evening, and getting to the conference room early to ready herself and stake a place far, far from Junkrat’s preferred spot would behoove her immensely.

As Satya rubs the sleep from her eyes with the heel of her hand, she tucks the sheets back up and under her pillow and smooths over the thin summer quilt to flatten out the wrinkles. She then rounds to the foot of her bed to pluck the small shower tote she had placed on the floor by the empty chest, and crosses the length of her room with it hooked in the crook of her arm to comb through the wardrobe in the far corner for fresh a blouse, undergarments, and pair of slacks. Her desk harbors the case to her hard-light gauntlet, and although a part of her craves its presence, she knows it would be less work to return to the barracks and apply it after her morning routine.

With shower supplies, toothbrush, and a change of clothes in tow, she shuffles into her slippers and takes her leave. She passes the pristine surface of her desk, the kempt blankets of her bed, and the small nightstand settled at its side. Beside the curve of an empty water glass, the pair of grenade shells watch her with knowing smiles, the one she’d taken the day prior poised back in its original position. The pleasure written into Junkrat’s expression as he’d cradled the dropped casing in his palm and swept away the sand from its textured paint surfaces to the forefront of her thoughts, and she again wishes that she had not gone against her better judgment and had instead left the grenade shell behind.

Her fingers burrow into the folds of her clothes as the familiar burn of embarrassment returns. Not only had she admitted to holding onto the two shells he’d given her, Ana had peered out the back of the jeep and remarked on his smile. A grin from Junkrat is not an uncommon thing, of course, as he is invested in his own brand of humor and enjoys inflicting it upon others, both for his own amusement and for the amusement of his audience, but she is not so naïve as to think this one in particular was not without influence.

There can be no question: learning she’d kept his creations had made him _happy_. He was _glad_ she’d kept them. Satya had been so sure that he’d given them to her as a part of some sort of joke, especially with how she had first viewed his unorthodox work habits and the absolute mess he had managed of the workshop in such a short amount of time, but time has disproven that. Whatever his motive had been for the empty casings, whether it was a simple joke or an attempt at camaraderie, it’s clear he was more than pleased with her choice. The warmth in his smile when he’d held the shell had been proof enough.

And it seems strange, she thinks, that something so insignificant should make him happy. She is so used to seeing him sculpted with self-satisfaction or the pleasure of sowing destruction with his work, like his ridiculous handstand or how he’d looked crawling through the smoke in the warehouse wall in Dorado, but how he’d looked at her was… different. It was something genuine, something _scarce_. While she can’t recall anything of its exact likeness, the closest comparison she can make is how he’d grinned down at her from Lijiang’s skyline, clasping onto her gauntlet and asking her if she was all right as she hung from the roof. Something else had worked its way through him, something besides complacency and amusement; relief, perhaps, or pleasure that his creations had provided her with some sort of odd companionship to occupy her idle compulsions.

Perhaps, she thinks, it was not such a bad thing to take the shell.

When Satya reaches the washroom, she hooks a turn to the right half of the facilities and paths over toward the line of showers. Aside from the faint sound of running water from the other side of the wall, echoing against the tile and along the metal of the stalls—one of the others brushing their teeth, she assumes—there is no sign of anyone else. And, to be honest, it’s a relief. Her mind is not in the right place to entertain small talk in close quarters with her colleagues, and she isn’t sure what she would do if Tracer or McCree were feeling chatty at the sinks.

The rest of Satya’s movements are guided by muscle memory and the repetition of embedded routine. She places her change of clothes across the final stretch of wooden bench, folding them over each other to create a neat pile, and then sets down her tote in the third to last stall. After twisting on the water to allow it to rise to a more favorable temperature, she slides out of her slippers and tucks them beneath the bench where the rest of her garments have been settled, followed shortly by her nightshirt and pyjama pants. The pervading chill of the washroom ripples gooseflesh down her legs, and as she steps out of her panties, she becomes painfully aware of just how wet she’d become in the aftermath of her dream. Jaws tensed, she lifts them from the floor and buries them among her bedclothes with a delicate burn in the height of her cheeks.

By the time she dips past the white curtain and drapes it closed, the water is pleasantly hot. She angles the showerhead toward the stall’s bench, and with an open bottle of shampoo in hand, she sits down and squeezes a small amount into her palm. The warmth of the water pours over her head and down her shoulders, and she works the lather into her hair as she massages it against her scalp. Eyes squeezed shut, she bites the inside of her cheek and narrows her concentration on the sound of the water striking the cold tilework by her toes and streaming a path toward the grated drain. Prickles rise on her arms from the disparate temperatures, and she maneuvers herself further beneath the pressured waterfall to let it roll down her shoulders, heat stippling in and knotting down the curve of her back.

It shouldn’t, but the afternoon Junkrat had crawled into the shower next to hers resurfaces from the back of her mind. He had stripped down just outside her stall, removed his prosthetics one by one, and let the water carve down his body to wash away the char and sweat from their flight over Gibraltar’s rooftops and through the sweltering streets below. While had not been able to see him, her initial meeting with him in the washroom had supplied more than enough imagery to provide an estimated guess at how he might have looked laid back upon the shower bench.

Satya inclines her head beneath the stream of water, combing away the suds as she wrestles with her internal conscience. As much as she would like to deny it, her attraction to Junkrat has sharpened within the past few weeks. Her thoughts have become more focused on him, his body, his presence, his behaviors, which has resulted in a far more active imagination than she would care to admit. While she supposes that imagination in itself does not affect her directly, it doesn’t stop her from lingering on choice moments where he’d been flush against her body or when he had reached out to touch her in some way, whether it had been out of necessity or casual contact—which appears to have manifested quite sharply in her dream.

She sighs into the steam as the thought spins a coil of heat in her lower belly. Everything had felt so real—too real, startlingly real, _achingly_ real—and even though it had very much been a dream, it does not negate the fact that she had been willing to let him touch her. _More_ than touch, in truth; she’d wanted more than his mouth on her wrists, her throat, her stomach; she’d wanted more than him over top of her, rubbing and grinding and pressing close; she’d wanted more than his fingers pathing down her belly and ghosting across her skin with feathery light teasing. None of it had been real, none of his closeness or his touches or the pressure of his body over her, nothing but fictional stimulation dreamt up by her subconscious mind, but a shiver still dips down the curve of her spine. The kiss she’d stolen from his dreamlike doppelganger had been gripping, overwhelming, _lustful_ ; its phantom seems to burn on her lips, a soft and stinging ache in the aftermath, and she brings a hand against her mouth as if water alone could not snuff out the fire.

Would… would he really kiss that way? she wonders, shifting beneath the running water. Would he pin her against the sheets and work his mouth down her wrists, her breasts, her belly? Would he have such a raw ravenousness in him that he’d be whispering those things into her ear? Would he trace his fingers down the length of her body and tease her until she was wet and aching and desperate for his touch? Would he—

No, her conscience presses, shutting out the thought. No, he wouldn’t do any of those things, and she should know better. Ever since his and Roadhog’s arrival, his focus has always been fixated upon his work, spread across piles of scattered components and containers of volatile compounds and coiled up in twists of wires, and as Tracer had pointed out at the beachside, any romantic pursuits of his are clearly directed elsewhere. If speculation is anything to be believed, someone has proved a greater distraction than the bombs he’s devoted his downtime to creating, and has captured his attention in a way her presence never would. His lingering stare in the hangar and on the beach implies nothing but passing interest in a physical sense, as is common with almost anyone, or so it seems, and she finds the possibility of capturing further attention embarrassingly low. Junkrat is always immersed in his own world with his explosives and drawings and whatever wealth he has hoarded away in whatever corners of the earth; why would he bother with someone who is fundamentally different from him in almost every sense?

She supposes the same question could be asked of her as well.

The continuous rhythm of her heart accompanies the soothing patterns of the water pouring down around her, and with a frustrated sigh hitched in the back of her mouth, she reaches for the cloth and bodywash. Soap foams around her neck, across her collarbone, between her breasts, along her legs, and down her belly. Warmth sluices everything to the cold tile floor and trickles down squared grout lines to the drain two stalls over. The pressure from the showerhead and her own touch beneath the textured surface of the cloth eases the anxious knot winding at the back of her throat, and the longer she scrubs even patterns across her skin, the better she feels. Remnants of the dream still stick to the pads of her fingers and to the curve of her lips, and no matter how hard she tries to route her focus elsewhere, it always returns to Jamison Fawkes and the wonderful heat of his mouth kissing down her wrists.

As she drops the cloth back into her tote, it becomes more apparent that the desire from her dream had never quite dissipated. She still feels the tight ache that she felt while lying on her bed (beneath him, his weight, the warmth of his skin, the molten trails of his tongue), and it seems to sharpen when she moves to wash off lingering soap beneath the running water. If she is so distracted now, alone and in private with nothing important to direct her attention toward, how does she expect the briefing to go with tactics to review and new information to absorb and with his presence so unbearably close? Would she be able to narrow her concentration to Winston and his usual talks? Would she be able to parse her colleagues’ comments, suggestions, answers, and offer viable input of her own? Or would she find herself often sidetracked, preoccupied with daydreams she should not have?

Biting her lower lip, Satya guides her right hand down between her legs. The water cascades down her shoulders and pours through her hair, warm and pressured and comforting, and although its touch feels nothing like his skin, his palms, his mouth, it provides a sense of closeness nonetheless. She leans back, allowing herself to use the tile wall for support, and she lets everything return in a vivid, heady rush: the hard muscle of his belly upon the rooftop, the prominent tan streaked down his shoulders, the hastened drumbeat of his heart, the way he’d felt poised over top of her in her dreamscape, the fire of his body pressed against her, the pleasurable patterns he’d pathed with his tongue down her collarbone and over her breasts, the husky sound of his accent whispering against her ear. The movements of her fingers mirror how he’d teased her, how he’d made her ache, and she sucks in a deep breath as she circles across sensitive nerves and parts soft folds aside to dip further in. Her own wetness surprises her; it ignites a burning sort of spark through her skin, sent to feed the ravenous coil drawing taut inside of her, and the thought of how things might have continued had there been no interruption causes her toes to curl.

With the water pouring down her body and two fingers gliding in and out at a slow, slow, shallow pace, she cages a moan back behind her teeth. The increasing need to be filled strings through the ends of every nerve, and a distant part of her wishes he were present—he would feel good, wouldn’t he? Even just his mouth, his hands, his fingers; he _must_ —because hers alone are not long enough, not thick enough, and leave her with such a stark, insatiable want that draws through sweat and skin and pores.

Her thoughts shift toward how he might have looked in the enclosure beside her: legs bowed, his body naked and dripping with one hand combing through damp tangles of hair as water trickles down sculpted muscles and a southward stretch of blond. She slides both fingers upward in anticipation and electricity seems to shock through her legs under her circling touch. She needs this feeling, she does, she really does, she needs it like nothing else, and the carnal part of her is relentless in its imagination: she wonders how good he is, what he enjoys, what makes him moan, what renders him silent, what he sounds like when he’s close, what he’d say against her with his mouth on her shoulder and two fingers pumping inside of her, how he’d shudder when he’d finally let himself thrust in—oh, and he’s got _stamina_ ; fuck, he’d even said so himself, and with a too satisfied laugh in his voice—wait, but hadn’t that been a joke? Or was he serious? Does that mean he’d keep going? Oh, she doesn’t know if she can handle that—just keep his mouth between her legs with his hands on her hips and glide his tongue against her and make her come over and over and _over_ —

Satya presses her back against the wall as hot, burning pleasure begins to sharpen through her. It sears down her hips, her legs, into the soles of her feet; it coils up tighter and tighter and threatens to split her at the seams. The heat of the water soaks down her body and runs hot valleys down her collarbone and between her breasts. She is close, so incredibly close, brought just near the edge and yet just out of reach. Everything around her is reduced to plumes of steam and dripping rainfall and sets of sparking nerves twisting in delight at her every move. She bites into her lower lip, her fingers increase their pace, and his voice becomes a low, rough murmur in her ear: _I want you so bloody bad._

At last, the pressure detonates. A paroxysm claims her in shaking waves as aching release seizes her in its grip and sends her over the edge. Eyes squeezed shut and hips rocking into her hand, a soft moan that might have been his name if she weren’t biting on her tongue pulls out of her and wells up over the pouring water and the damp tiles. Her back arches off the wall, fiery wreaths working down the length of her body, and as the consuming peak devolves into a series of lessening aftershocks, she sucks in a mouthful of steam and slows her fingers to a satisfied stop. Everything trembles with a deep strum of fulfillment, and it is all she can do to keep herself from sighing in pleasure.

That was too good. Far, far too good.

The water continues to drum against her stomach, her shoulders, the sides of her face. A palpable exhaustion sprouts roots from her bones and snakes into the grout among the tiles. All that was wound so tightly inside of her has been plied apart, smoothed out, and reshaped into something less vicious, less vying. Her muscles relax as she leans herself against the wall, and she gathers the strength to guide her hand beneath the showerhead to rinse it clean. To Satya’s relief (and chagrin, she supposes), release has proven to be a potent and much needed salve. Perhaps it is because she had almost forgotten how it feels to lust after another person, but she does not remember ever feeling so spent. Then again, she does not remember ever falling victim to such inordinate amounts of tension, either. Moderate amounts, yes, as can be expected of an adolescent or of a person in a newly entered relationship, but nothing to this unbearable degree—and she doesn’t know how that should make her feel.

Should she be annoyed by this? she wonders, tucking a lock of wet hair behind her ear. Should she be ashamed that someone she has known for such a short amount of time can reduce her to a shivering mess in the sanctuary of a shower stall? Or should she be intrigued for that very reason? There is a definite degree of embarrassment, that much is certain. After all, she’d thought of him fingering her and how good he’d be with his mouth, even after she’d told herself she would never use fantasies of him in this context—really, _fantasies_ , that’s how bad this has become—and without the haze of lust clouding her judgment, the thought of him behaving in a sexual manner (and with her, no less) makes her too nervous to entertain it for too long.

After another once over with a soap-covered washcloth, Satya rinses off and collects her things. The heat of the water is sorely missed in the chilled area outside her stall, but she makes do with a lukewarm towel and fresh clothes and dries with haste. She takes a brief pause in the other half of the washroom to brush her teeth and give her face a gentle yet thorough scrub in front of the mirrors. As she pats her cheeks dry with a towel, she notices that the polish on her nails is starting to chip, and she wonders if she will have enough time to remove the old coat and apply another color before the meeting. There are other things to be done before she can join the others, and with how she’d dawdled in the shower, she concedes that it will have to wait until later.

When she returns to her space in the barracks, Satya discards her dried tote on the floor beyond the foot of her bed. She wastes no time in plucking out the trim black case from within her desk and flicking its clasps open. Fingers poised at the edges, she lifts the lid and lets it set back on its hinges, allowing her most cherished possession stares up at her in its segmented pieces. Everything is beautiful, perfect, and pristine. The crystal embedded into the palm, a nod by Vishkar’s engineers to _alta_ dyes at her request, lies cool and dormant among the midnight velvet.

With gentle precision, she takes out each segment: the primary hand piece is first, followed shortly by the forearm, the bicep, and then the shoulder. The short sleeves on her plain violet blouse discard the need for special action concerning her clothes, and so the work is seamless routine. Everything clicks into place, just as it should, and once the final segment has been set and locked, a wave of her arm breathes life into the sapphire cradled against her heartlines. She shifts her hands through a set of _mudras_ to see the thin wires weave between her fingers, and she guides them into a circular frame over the dip of her palm. The glowing azure edges of the frame smooth from a crude structure to something sleeker, something refined, and once she curves her other hand over its entirety to smooth out the final pieces, the image of a brilliantly blue grenade shell stares back at her as it twists in lazy circles between her fingers.

Slowly, her gaze drifts over to the two crimson casings on her nightstand. Their painted faces point toward the desk, looking at her with wide and expectant smiles. It would be easy to conjure two similar constructs and mimic the little trinkets he’s given her with her own unique flair; she could leave them at his cluttered workspace, stashed among various components, laid upon stacks of crinkled papers, set near half-finished pieces like miniature replicas—places he’d surely search in the midst of his routines.

A part of her considers pursuing the idea, but cold logic brushes it aside: what purpose would there be in the exchange? Their use would be as ornamental as the ones he’d given her, so he wouldn’t be able to use them in his work. At most, they would be sleek paperweights, or would serve as faithful decorations as the two on her nightstand. It would be something to satiate the desire for an interaction, and nothing more.

Sternness shaping her frown, Satya clenches her left hand and breaks the wireframe into a burst of hexagonal light. She then closes the black case with care and stows it back in its designated spot within the desk. The wardrobe holds four separate sets of shoes across its floor, and she grabs the pair matched with her Vishkar uniform to hide halfway beneath the long legs of her black slacks and slips them on.

Before closing the door, her eyes pause over the sizable V-marked suitcase tucked against the leftmost corner. Her polishes are in one of its compartments, along with a handful of personal mementos she’d taken from her quarters in employee housing—a set of delicate golden bangles, a small half saree that was once a part of a Bharatanatyam costume, the _kunjalam_ from performances she’d danced as a child—as well as a personal tablet Sanjay had gifted to her a year ago. His reasoning was to help her keep on top of company correspondence and to better regulate her personal schedule between corporate gatherings and appointments coordinated with clientele. She’d turned it off during her journey to Gibraltar, and although she had switched it on occasionally during the first few weeks of her stay to check what she had missed back at headquarters, Satya had resolved to bury it in her wardrobe. In order to better integrate with the members of Overwatch, she assumed it would be best to extricate herself from Vishkar’s environment—at least for a while.

Curiosity guiding her movements, Satya unzips the top of the suitcase. She bypasses the compartment with her small collection of nail polish, nudges aside the plastic container holding cloth-swathed jewelry, and withdraws the slim case that protects the tablet. It is pristine white, just like the suitcase, with Vishkar’s signature ‘V’ emblazoned upon its leather-like surface. Shutting the wardrobe, she brings the case over to her desk and flips it open, and with her thumb pressed against the side button, she powers it on. The sleek screen flickers to life in a surge of light, and after a brief and colorful display of the operating system, its plain white lock screen materializes into view. She taps in the access code, and once it registers on Athena’s network, a generous slew of notifications begins.

Emails, mostly, she finds. Messages from her circle in the company. There are some corporate-wide memos amongst the influx of mail, but the majority are from fellow architechs concerning the status of ongoing projects and the progress of particularly noteworthy clients. Nothing out of the ordinary. There is a message from Sanjay here and there, consisting of firm yet friendly pleasantries and inquiring as to how she’s doing, and always yet with a brief acknowledgment at the end stating that he knows she must be busy doing all sorts of things out of the country while on sabbatical but if she could find the time, perhaps let him know? She has never felt any sort of disdain or contempt from Sanjay before, but skimming over the text of his messages starts a rather sour feeling in the pit of her stomach. It must be the medium, she thinks. She must be misinterpreting. It’s happened in the past, so it’s not unusual. Of course he’d be interested in her wellbeing after being absent for the past few months, and with her lack of response, it’s obvious that she has been occupied with other things, especially with the nature of the organization she has chosen to pursue.

Half of her itches to tap the reply button and draft something in response, but the other half stills her hand. She had chosen only to talk about her placement in Overwatch with a handful of higher executives, and Sanjay had not been one of them. She doesn’t know how much he might know about her situation, and even her superiors hadn’t been notified of the name the two freelance recruiters who had sought her talent had chosen for their outfit. Until further notice, the Petras Act is still a real threat to Overwatch’s continued existence, and any information she might share with Sanjay would have to be limited in accommodation. She is not entirely unused to the concept, as Vishkar has its own collection of company secrets, but it seems strange to purposefully keep something from Sanjay after all these years.

Ignoring the unease settling lopsided in her belly, she composes a brief yet cordial reply:

_Sanjay,_

_It’s good to hear from you. I apologize for the belated response. I have been preoccupied with several interesting projects that have left me without much free time. Overall, I’m doing well. I have made many acquaintances here and a friend or two. The atmosphere is very different, but I’m getting used to it. I haven’t had time to read over the rest of my emails, but it seems like everything is progressing as usual, and I hope you and the others are faring just as well. I will try to be in touch soon._

_— Satya_

She gives the text a once over and reassesses her sentence structures for clarity and potential typos. It is rather impersonal and bare bones compared to other messages she’s sent in the past, and while half of her expects some sort of arch comment stating as such in reply, she supposes it should be sufficient to keep him posted. After another swift reread for any last-minute changes, Satya taps the send button. The application’s animation is smooth and takes her back to her inbox as the message glides out of the way in a drawer-like fashion.

Satisfied, she takes to skimming among the bold-faced labels indicating unread mail, sifting through names of various coworkers and superiors to see if there is anything else of interest she might have missed. There is a few months’ worth of mail stocked up over the blue-patterned pages, primarily projects she has never been involved with followed by reminders about certain company policies, things she deems unimportant enough to ignore, but her curiosity drives her fingertips and she continues to scroll through the list. Despite the bright screen and the small lines of squished text, something catches her eye: the name José Constantine Vicente.

Without a second thought, Satya taps on the message. It is rather short, and in Spanish, she finds, and it takes a moment for her mind to switch gears for proper parsing:

_Satya,_

_It’s been too long! How are you? Good I hope! I’m sorry for the lack of contact. I’ve been pulled all over the world and barely have time to breathe between work and meals. They brought me to Iran for a very big project and then I was shipped down to Egypt to show some of my new designs to the architechs working in Alexandria. There are fantastic libraries there, I think you’d like them! Currently I’m having a short rest because they decided to put me up in Italy for a weekend, so I am enjoying Florence for the next two days and then it will be back to Egypt to finalize a few last things. I will be back in Utopaea next month, and although I don’t know exactly when it will be, I’d like some time to catch up if that’s all right with you? I have some very important news and I’d like you to be the first to hear it._

_Cheers,_

_-JCV_

As she glances over his initials, she finds a faint smile at the side of her mouth. It has probably been the better part of a year since she has seen José in person; their last meeting was impossibly short because he had been in a rush to leave the country on yet another long project. His messages had become few and far between for a while, reflecting his tendencies to get absorbed into his work, and although they always picked up during stretches of downtime, they would drop off again shortly afterward. In spite of such sparse contact, it truly is nice to hear from him again. If things cooperate and everything continues to move so smoothly, she might be able to plan a short trip to Utopaea to visit him and hear his news before Vishkar ushers him to another part of the world. Perhaps some of the others would be interested in seeing India’s finest city?

Satya considers the idea, but the thought of Junkrat climbing up Utopaea’s glittering towers makes her dismiss it with a curt shake of her head.

With eleven o’clock ticking closer, she taps the app closed and leaves the tablet locked upon her desk. She will respond to José when she has more time to compose an appropriate reply, preferably tonight before bed and after her nails have had a chance to dry. If Sanjay sends a response by then, she supposes she will answer that as well, although the thought of continually omitting important pieces of her ongoing life still doesn’t sit quite well.

By the time she reaches the conference room, it is twenty minutes before Winston’s chosen time, and to Satya’s surprise, she is not the first to arrive. Mercy has already taken her place toward the far right of the room, sitting patiently in one of the rolling desk chairs with one leg crossed. Her hair has been tied up into a blond tail, her glasses close against her nose as she studies a set of paperwork strapped to the clipboard in her lap. Her lab coat seems to have been left behind in the infirmary; instead, she wears a loose set of slacks, a vibrant sunshine blouse, and a black knit cardigan draped over her slim shoulders. A pen in hand, she appears to be occupied with writing down the length of the first page—additional medical records, Satya assumes, although she can’t be sure—and pauses every now and then to tap at the head of the clipboard in thought before continuing.

Satya heads toward her and sits down two seats to Mercy’s left, the farthest she might situate herself from Junkrat’s preferred corner. She folds one leg over the other and turns her attention to the tactics table in the center of the room. While everything is lit by a floating map of Gibraltar, the rest of the keys and pads on the table’s surface remain dark and dormant.

“Is your shoulder feeling better?” Mercy looks up from her clipboard, her pen poised between her hands.

“It is,” says Satya. “I haven’t felt any pain since yesterday afternoon. Sometimes there is a tired feeling, but that is all.”

“Good! That’s great news. The tiredness is not an unusual side effect, especially with the exertion your shoulder was under. I wouldn’t worry about it. It should clear up on its own soon enough. If it doesn’t, do be sure to let me know. Biotic technology is superb these days, but it isn’t foolproof.” She laughs, and then adds, “Well, not yet, anyway.”

“Well, it is still very impressive nonetheless,” says Satya. “I imagine I would have had to suffer through an injured shoulder for the better part of a week without it.”

Mercy nods, directing her attention back to her paperwork. “It is my hope that modern medicines will start to include an even wider usage of nanobiotic technologies over the next five years. There is still a lot of research being conducted, of course, but I believe there is great potential in using them in everyday medical scenarios rather than only high-risk surgeries or more debilitating illnesses. Making it accessible for everyone would make an enormous impact. After all, humanity’s mortality rate is much less than what it was a decade ago thanks to those kinds of developments. If we could perfect everything for widespread use…” Lips thinned, she pauses and stares at the writing scribbled across her clipboard. “It isn’t without risk. There are still many things that need to be addressed, of course. But if we’re able to save more lives, I think it would be worth it. It has done wonders already.”

“Did you work with those kinds of technologies outside of Overwatch, then?” asks Satya. “I will admit I haven’t seen much in the medical field, but Miss Amari’s rifle seems to employ something similar.”

“I most certainly have,” says Mercy. “In fact, it was my team of scientists who made one of the most crucial breakthroughs. Nanotechnology has been on the rise since the early twenties, but using it treat injuries was a sort of fantasy. Something you’d read about in sci-fi books, you know? Robots in the patient’s bloodstream, able to attack cancers at the cellular level—that sort of thing. But we discovered something that allowed us to apply it in a completely different setting. It was the concept of the universal constructor that truly helped nanobiotics become a reality.”

Satya frowns in thought, trying to pluck out specifics amongst the plethora of courses she’d once taken under the academy’s prestigious instructors. Interspersed between language programs and architectural studies and lessons concerning the refinement of hard-light, there was a great amount of content covering world histories, Indian histories, varying levels of mathematics, and an overview of the development of technologies. One or two discussions centered on futurology and what horizons new tech would open for both Vishkar and for humanity, and she swears she recalls something similar in the vein of nanotech.

“The universal constructor,” Satya repeats, her gaze falling to the crystal embedded in her palm. “That sounds so familiar. Is that what I think it is?”

“That depends entirely on what you think it is,” says Mercy, entertaining an amused smile.

Satya taps the bright sapphire with the black grips of her fingers. “Machines that build machines,” she says. “They act like a virus in the way that they have the ability to copy themselves. But the constructor is more than that, isn’t it? It must be. Well, at least in the way that would serve you best. Your constructors aren’t just machines. You built machines that could replicate human cells.”

“Very impressive.” A knowing glint flickers in the blue of Mercy’s eyes. “You are impeccably sharp, Symmetra.”

“Replication. So that is why the healing process is so quick. That’s why it took such a short amount of time to treat my injury.” Satya brings her right hand across the knob of her shoulder, the white metal warm to the touch. She gives it a testing rotate. There is no resistance and no pain: a perfect recovery. “How remarkable.”

“Remarkable, indeed,” says Mercy. “Not only can cancerous or malformed cells be destroyed, healthy cells can be copied and replicated at an accelerated rate. Patients can be healed in less than half the time, and that is on the long side of things. Optimal timeframes were recorded in mere seconds. A miraculous breakthrough.” Mercy unfolds her leg, providing the holographic map of Gibraltar with a drawn frown. “Unfortunately, that is also why Ana Amari has similar technology in her weapon. Some of Overwatch’s superiors wanted to weaponize nanobiotics. Her rifle was Torbjörn’s work. I fought very hard to restrict it to medical purposes only, but when war comes to pass, there isn’t much you can do. I was not happy about the fate of Overwatch, but in a way, I’m glad the organization was shut down before more harm could be done with it.”

Satya glances to the empty chair that heads the right side of the tactician table, Winston’s assumed seat. “If the idea of weaponizing it was proposed, is there a chance it might be tried again? I realize this group is bare bones compared to the numbers Overwatch kept in its prime, but would Winston or any of the others push for nanobiotic weaponry?”

“No, they wouldn’t.” Mercy pauses for a moment, her brow creasing, and then adds, “Well, at least I hope they wouldn’t. I doubt Winston would ever approve of it if the situation should somehow arise.”

“What about Reinhardt?” As Satya says his name, it occurs to her that the probability of him going against Mercy’s will would be very low. Reinhardt may be a battle-scarred veteran with an unquenchable fire for combat, but if anything, he would find nanobiotic tech a cowardly alternative to a face-to-face firefight. “Or Torbjörn,” she amends, nodding toward his usual seat in the center of the room. “You mentioned it was his work, after all. It wouldn’t surprise me if he wanted to develop more arms like Ana Amari’s.”

A touch of worry shapes Mercy’s frown. “It was his, yes. He’s the one who designed it. But it wasn’t his idea. The design for a long-range weapon utilizing nanobiotics was requested by Jack and Gabriel. It came up in some of our meetings across the organization during the war. There were so many people injured in the Crisis that our medics couldn’t keep up. Between both our agents and local military troops, our medical attention was spread very thin. We barely had the resources to keep ourselves patched up, no less civilians and their first responders in dangerous combat zones. Ana’s rifle was the original prototype to be deployed to medics out in the field. Its potential was great and it solved some of the problems at the time, but allowing users the option of ‘shoot to heal’ or ‘shoot to kill’ is a very dangerous route. Still, we sorely needed something to help the wounded. That couldn’t be ignored. I had my misgivings, but sometimes you must risk more than you are willing in order to keep people safe. So, I allowed them to use what we made.”

Despite the stoicism sculpting Mercy’s expression, the stern stare she gives the tactician table is telling. It reminds Satya of how Sanjay would look if an important client deal fell through: cut fists, a straight back, face shaped as a block of hard marble, and two dark eyes like drops of cold resin. And yet, even when discussing an unsavory topic, there is still a degree of softness in her countenance that Sanjay never had. Concern, perhaps? Regret? Guilt?

There must be old wounds there, she realizes. The dissent within Overwatch remained under wraps until later in its life, and Satya wonders just how many sacrifices Mercy and her colleagues made to stop the war.

“If Jack does decide he wants to pursue similar weaponry,” she says, turning her gaze back to her lap, “I will do everything in my power to stop him. The only clout he has with us now is only as an equal. Even if some of the others still call him Commander, he is not a commander anymore. The Overwatch he headed perished not long after he did. He is another old soldier now, just like the rest of us. There are no world leaders looking in on us and no council of superiors we must obey. I can tell him no, I will not allow it, and there is nothing he can do. And as silly as it seems… I think it would be nice to tell him no and see him mope every once in a while. Stubborn man.”

A faint smile follows, cracking through the mask of rigid marble and sharpened stone, and Mercy reverts to the jovial demeanor she’d held upon Satya’s arrival. Amusement, she thinks, or some sort of old fondness dusted from the depths of the attic and shined with a spot of polish. Even if there are old wounds scarred down beneath, there is no doubt that the old soldiers of Overwatch meant a great deal to her—both as associates and as friends.

Before long, other members of the team start to trickle into the conference room. Mei is the first, followed shortly by Tracer and McCree, and then by Winston who takes his seat at the head of the tactician table with a small laptop in hand. As Winston sets up and connects to the hologram projector, Genji arrives—without Zenyatta, Satya notes—and gravitates to one of the chairs behind Mercy in silence. By the time Morrison appears and takes his place at the opposite end of the table, quiet chatter has begun over the hum of the machinery corded through the walls, and Satya finds herself growing strangely impatient.

She supposes it isn’t unusual for others to dawdle, especially with how extensive the Gibraltar grounds are, but the rigid punctuality in her is appalled at their tardiness. The sooner everyone arrives, the sooner everyone leaves, and she would be lying if she said she were not looking forward to leaving. The prospect of spending the better part of an hour or two in a cramped room with her colleagues—Junkrat, specifically, if she must be truthful—is not something she wants to endure, especially in light of the dream she’d had. While this is sure to be a typical yet tedious briefing, just like all their previous gettogethers pre- and post-mission, the reality is that she will have to sit in his presence and keep her thoughts focused on the past events in Lijiang as well as new topics both Morrison and Winston will present, and with how distracted she’s been the last few weeks, she finds it less and less likely that she’ll be able to keep them from wandering.

Eager to turn her attention elsewhere, Satya sneaks a furtive glance at the clipboard in Mercy’s lap. It’s difficult to see in the dimness of the room, but the light from the holograms shine a soft glow over the papers tucked under the metal clamp. It isn’t a set of medical records or anything that might contain sensitive information or threaten any confidentiality laws. Instead, it appears to be an ongoing collection of personal notes, detailing bits and pieces of the team’s past missions between paragraphs of neat, slanted handwriting. She catches familiar names tucked amongst the blocks of words, mentions of Winston, Reinhardt, Junkrat, Tracer, and McCree, and even a glimpse of her own moniker shuffled between them. None of it is surprising, especially if Mercy has been keeping an ongoing record of events for her own purposes as it seems she has, and yet it feels somehow strange to see written praise from someone so far removed from Vishkar’s domain.

Perhaps this is a good thing, Satya thinks. If her colleagues do truly find her skills acceptable and noteworthy, she might be able to further establish proper rapport with them. Her role in Vishkar’s hierarchy has taught her many things over the years, and one of the foremost is that it is always a smart thing to develop good relationships with those you meet, as networking and knowledgeable contacts are some of the most valuable assets in the corporate world. In the light of her future departure, she finds the thought of having others she might call friends somewhat comforting, even if there would be an entire continent’s distance between them.

Pensive, Satya steals yet another glance at the clipboard. Below the initial text she’d seen, there are scattered pieces written toward the bottom of the page, seeming to be miscellaneous comments or Mercy’s notes to herself. As she skims through more of Mercy’s elegant script, there is one name that catches her interest: Gabriel Reyes.

Satya frowns in thought, letting her fingers drift over the back of the white metal that encases her knuckles. It’s familiar, she thinks. Very familiar. While Satya has not yet heard the surname, Mercy had mentioned a Gabriel concerning her nanobiotics, and she remembers Reinhardt and Torbjörn mentioning a Gabriel as well. But didn’t they say he’d perished in Switzerland? And with Jack Morrison, no less? Reinhardt had stated their deaths weren’t an accident, whatever sort of catastrophe had caused them. But despite whatever happened, against all odds, it seems, Morrison had emerged alive. A bit scarred, perhaps, and a little worse for wear, but he’d come back from the dead just the same, and is now as healthy as any man his age—even more so, if she’s perfectly honest. Ana Amari was also thought to be dead, according to Mercy and some of the others, but she’d managed to slip from death’s grasp and return several years later, albeit minus one eye.

Is this a particularly common thing for Overwatch agents? she wonders, glancing up at the floating Gibraltar map. She is under no illusions about the real danger involved with the trade, especially with the state of the world as it is, but she must admit that she finds two faked deaths a very, very strange coincidence. Perhaps Gabriel Reyes suffered a similar fate.

Soon enough, the remaining stragglers find their way into the conference room. Reinhardt and Torbjörn arrive together in oil stained shirts and trousers with mussed hair and greased beards, rumbling about the state of the Crusader and sets of new enhancements planned for the outpost’s defenses. Ana follows not a minute afterward with a small pink teacup held in both dexterous hands, a navy blue hijab draped over her head to conceal her white hair. Zenyatta accompanies her, a calm and solemn presence, the sleek golden silk of his Shambali robes whispering across the metal flooring as he mirrors her swift footsteps. Each of them take their respective seats among the rest of the group, slotting into the soft upholstery and adjusting themselves to the darkened setting of the conference room.

The pair of junkers are the last to stumble in. To her relief, neither of them spare her a glance as they make their way over to the rightmost side of the room, the farthest away from Genji and his omnic mentor. The black eyes of Roadhog’s mask an imposing glint under the hologram’s azure glow. He plods between the chairs, parting a path for himself and his wiry charge with nonchalant shoves before folding his massive arms and leaning against the far wall. Junkrat, seeming none too pleased about having to be present for yet another tedious gathering, hijacks one of the desk chairs and plops down, folding his good leg so his ankle rests over the plate of his metal knee. His left hand combs through his wild mess of blond hair while the other taps an even cadence on the armrest, and while he is too far away to discern exact details among the shadows cast from the tactician table, a part of her senses the prickling weight of being watched.

Unbidden, the unwelcome burn of embarrassment crawls up the back of Satya’s neck and flushes through her face. Adjusting the position of her legs, she directs her stare away from him and concentrates on the curve of her shoe instead. The sleek white material patterned with streaks of violet and the prominent heel serves its purpose as an object of focus, but despite her best efforts, it does little to deter her thoughts. Junkrat’s grinning doppelganger commands her imagination with vigor: teasing at the inside of her wrists, the nape of her neck, the dip of her navel, the sweet pressure of him sidling in between her thighs. The reminder of how she’d woken up this morning causes a slight shiver to pull through her lower back, and she must fight to still the slow and anxious sway of her foot. She knows she would be lying if she said she didn’t crave the contact, but if the idea of him tapping her shoulder or holding her waist feels entirely strange, she isn’t sure how she would expect herself to react to needy kisses and soft bites and wandering hands.

And still, as her conscience will not let her forget, all of what happened in the hazy incorporeality of her dreamscape can only pale in comparison to how she’d thought of him while in the privacy of the shower. The feeling of water sluicing down her back coupled with the errant fantasy of him pleasuring her with his fingers, his mouth, his cock, making sure she’d be full and satisfied, was almost too much to bear. Under any other circumstance, using the object of her affections to achieve release wouldn’t cause this sort of conflict within her, but this instance only serves as concrete proof that not only is she attracted to him in an emotional sense, she is attracted to him in a sexual sense as well, and it _bothers_ her.

It seems like such a ridiculous and farfetched concept not because of her, but because it’s _him_ , it’s Junkrat, it’s the madman with fire in his hair and insanity in his eyes and a lit fuse in his fist—but it’s also Jamison Fawkes, the young man with a knit brow and lost limbs and filled sketchbooks who scrounged to keep himself alive in the aftermath of the Omnic Crisis in Australia. Through the ample time she’s spent with him over the past couple months, she’s realized that both identities are two sides of the same coin, two shadows cast by the same figure, and she can’t say when her interest in his work or in his _character_ had developed into this utter mess.

Satya draws a sigh, tracing the crystal in the heart of her palm with her fingertips. If the image of him kneeling over top of her would somehow disappear, she would truly appreciate it.

Thankfully, the meeting seems to pass without most of its usual tedium. Jack Morrison addresses their part in the reveal of a shady operation being conducted under Lucheng Interstellar’s nose, and Winston elaborates on the president’s decision to provide their ragtag group of mercenaries a monetary contribution as a reward. While a chunk of it will be funneled into the watchpoint’s upkeep and the procurement of some sorely needed technological supplies, the rest is to be evenly divided and then distributed among the entire team.

“It’s less than I would like,” Winston admits, adjusting his glasses, “but it’s better than what we’ve been able to give. If we keep this up, maybe in the future it’ll be a more common occurrence. I know we don’t have the UN backing us anymore, so no straight commission work or salaried jobs like before, but that doesn’t mean we can’t develop connections. I think Lucheng Interstellar was a good start, all things considering.” He manages a toothy smile. “So, for now, everyone gets approximately four percent. It’s not an enormous amount, but it’s not pocket change. Think of it as a ‘good job’ bonus.”

Pleased murmuring spreads throughout the room, and when Satya casts an inquisitive look toward Junkrat, she finds him grinning in pleasure.

After summarizing the remainder of the meeting with Lucheng Interstellar, Morrison steers the conversation toward tactics, providing Tracer with firm yet affectionate glances while doing so as if to indirectly admonish her for separating herself from the scouting group at Lijiang. Most of the conversation revolves around positioning, priorities, and sticking together to create a cohesive unit, which in turn leads to further points made by Winston about looking out for one another while on the field, during combat or otherwise. It isn’t anything Satya hasn’t heard before, especially since the encounter in Dorado where she and Mercy had been separated from the others, and she finds her thoughts drifting in between pieces of input from her peers.

It isn’t long before Winston places his paw up over the tactician table’s projected map of Lijiang and brushes it aside with a single gesture, allowing a larger map of the world to form in its place. The same marked coordinates McCree had stolen from Talon are superimposed across the light blue landmasses in the form of red dots, dispersed across the continents in a scattered array. The one by Lijiang’s position on the map has been changed to green, indicating a successful investigation.

As the meeting turns toward what set of coordinates should be pursued next, Satya catches sudden movement in her peripheral. She glances to her right, beyond the sitting forms of Mercy, Ana, and Reinhardt, over toward the back wall where the junkers have taken residence. Winston’s chipper baritone talks of probabilities and the potential for increased activity—not to mention Satya’s brief interaction with the terrorist named Reaper and what multiple news sources claim to be a brief sighting of Doomfist in a city several hundred miles from Numbani’s outskirts—but Satya’s attention has detached from the conversation, rendering it a droning murmur in the film of her ears, and she finds focus on Junkrat instead.

He’s shifted in his chair, his good leg crooked and resting against the armrest as he presses the heel of his boot into the cushion’s edge. His body is at an angle, his elbow propped on the opposite armrest, and he lets the end of his peg keep flat to the floor to help him rock the chair back and forth. Heavy shadows obscure part of his face, leaving half illuminated by the soft blue light emitting from the three-dimensional map projected in the center of the room, and judging by the slanted turn of his mouth and the sharp crease in his brow, he appears more bored than anything else—hence the rocking, she assumes, and perhaps the change in posture as well. She can’t quite see his other arm with how he’s pretzeled himself in the chair, but it looks to be draped over his stomach, and she imagines him tapping absently along his belt or against the ever-present canteen hooked by his waistline.

It’s strange, but there is a small, sequestered sliver of herself that wishes she were more comfortable being in a casual setting with him. She might do what he’d done for her with the tiny casings and create something small to keep his idle tendencies occupied, or she might whisper things to him concerning the meetings topics to help maintain engagement. The curious thought of holding his hand comes to mind, prominently and with a flutter behind her breastbone, and she bites at the inside of her cheek to banish it.

“Jack, Winston—I’m sorry to interrupt, but might I speak?”

Reinhardt’s gravelly voice captures Satya’s attention. She wrenches her gaze away from Junkrat to settle onto where Reinhardt sits in his own chair, his great arms crossed over the thick plane of his chest. Something grave has crossed his grizzled features, she notes; his good eye is trained on Morrison, as if he expected some sort of backlash for his request, and his mouth has thinned into a grim frown. It reminds her of how he’d looked in the workshop, immersed in conversation with Torbjörn about the happenings at Switzerland. The severity of death and war have aged him well.

“I promise it is important,” says Reinhardt, his thick eyebrows furrowing together. “You know I would not ask otherwise.”

“Even if you just wanted to comment on breakfast, you’d be more than welcome to add to the conversation.” Winston grins, and with a casual swipe at the hologram, he zooms the map back out from the particular set of coordinates that were under discussion. “The floor is yours, Mister Wilhelm. What’s on your mind?”

From the opposite end of the tactician table, arms folded and jaw set, Morrison only nods his assent. His blue eyes are cold chips of steel in the pale light. His jagged facial scars stretch under the strain of a stern countenance, adorning his face with a fierce solemnity Satya recalls from the warehouse in Dorado, but there is a trace of concern in the creases in his brow.

“Thank you,” says Reinhardt. “I realize this is off topic, but with all this talk of pursuing another encounter with Talon, I thought it would be best to address it now.” He lets his gaze sweep across the room, appraising the others amongst the chairs, and Satya watches his stark white eye glisten in a film of blue cast from the hologram. “This is… well, a highly personal matter, to be frank. It’s something I hoped I could avoid, but with how things are turning out, it does not seem like that will be possible. I’m afraid something will need to be done, and soon, or else it might start to severely affect my position here.”

“You know we’re all friends here, Reinhardt,” says Mercy, offering an encouraging smile. “Personal matter or not, it is no less significant. Whatever it is, I know I can say with utmost certainty that it will not affect your position among us at all. I’d hoped you would have known that.”

Reinhardt’s expression softens. “Sometimes an old man forgets.”

“Oh, nonsense,” says Ana. She leans forward from her chair and pats his shoulder from behind. “I think that is you being stubborn more than anything. Your memory hasn’t dulled just yet.”

“Ah, but I think it has rusted just a little,” says Reinhardt. “I’m not as young as I used to be, you know. The same goes for my armor. It is no secret that the Crusader does not perform as well as it did. It is missing a few necessary components, and I’m sure if you were to ask Torby, he’d tell you the power core is starting to retain an even lesser charge than it used to all those years ago.”

“Ha, I’d tell you a lot more than that,” says Torbjörn. “The hull itself is durable, sure, but there are only so many times I can weld bullet holes shut. Cracks and hairline fractures are harder to repair if they run too deep, and there are getting to be quite a lot of those. Metal is metal, but it gets weaker just slapping thin layers overtop the injuries. Remaking all those plates would be a far better option than trying to repair something that’s got more holes in it than a block of Emmental cheese.”

“I know. It is unfortunate.” Reinhardt sighs, combing a hand through his thick head of hair. “As much as I tried to maintain the Crusader all these years, the truth is that it is very old, and in need of more care than the simple repairs Torby can provide.”

“They aren’t simple,” says Torbjörn. He sniffs, as if affronted by the statement. “I’d like to see _you_ do some welding.”

“I will have you know I’ve done plenty of it, little man. I know how to take care of my armor. Brigitte and I repaired the Crusader while travelling in Germany, many months before Winston’s recall. It needed parts then, too, but I ignored her warning because the situation required it.” Reinhardt’s eyes settle on the map overhead, the large scar carved across his left pinching with the worry shaping his face. “Still, that does not negate the fact that its age is starting to show. It needs a new power core. That much is certain. It could also use new parts to its hull. Replacing some of the pieces altogether would do it good, I think. Perhaps some of the joints and other internal components as well. This is why I would like to ask a favor.”

Tracer leans forward in her chair, interest arching her eyebrows. “All right, then. What’s the favor? I don’t suppose we’re going to pop down to the manufacturer and have a word about the warranty?”

“Warranty?” Reinhardt regards her with a lionlike grin. “Ha, if it were so simple, I would have had a replacement Crusader five years ago. Maybe ten! I could have had many replacements if I’d wanted. Then the damage from the war wouldn’t linger, and I would not be such a burden on us now.”

“You are not a burden,” says Genji, a soft and even voice from behind Satya. “Neither is your armor. Do not mistake minor inconvenience for a burden. You have done many great things made possible by your armor, things all of us are very thankful for, and I wouldn’t find it a burden to search for a more permanent means of repair.”

McCree nods in agreement, tilting up his hat with his thumb. “Shimada’s right, y’know. You kept us all in one piece, both then and now. Shields are mighty useful, and I know I don’t mind that rocket hammer of yours. I don’t see why trying to keep your suit running right would be a burden on any of us. So, c’mon. Out with it. What’s your favor?”

Reinhardt clears his throat, as if nervous, and affords the room an almost apprehensive look. “I would… I would very much like to visit the village of Eichenwalde. It was the last stand of many brave Crusaders in Stuttgart’s defense during the Omnic Crisis many, many years ago. It was also the last stand of Balderich von Adler, my master. He lost his life there, but he was able to bring about a turning point in the war. His death—all of their deaths—saved thousands of lives. Stuttgart would have been decimated had it not been for their noble sacrifice.”

He laces his fingers together and raises his gaze up at the world map splayed overhead once more. His brow rumples, the crows’ feet and worry lines etching with poignant remembrance. There is a palpable sorrow in how his shoulders slope, how his back curves, how his mouth slants, tough and weathered and something thought long gone that seeps up through the cracks, and Satya wonders just how many friends Reinhardt has lost.

“The village has fallen to rot since the war,” says Reinhardt, “but their armor remains. _Balderich’s_ armor remains. I wish to go to Eichenwalde and retrieve it. I also wish to bury Balderich, to give him the gratitude he deserves. If there are others in the ruins, I would like to bury them as well. They endured a warrior’s death; they deserve a warrior’s burial.” He pauses for a long moment, his fists clenching in his lap. Reinhardt’s heavy stare flicks to Morrison, to Winston, and then to the rest of the room. “I ask this favor because I would require transport for Balderich’s armor. I could not hope to do it alone. I can bury my master, but I cannot bring his armor back to Gibraltar. Not without assistance. It is too great a task for the last Crusader to handle on his own.”

Morrison’s countenance has eroded into something soft, worn, solemn. With one hand pathing along the back of his neck, a slight smile stretches the scar by his mouth. “You’d need more than just the transportation,” he remarks, his voice a gruff scratch across the room. “You’d need some able bodies to go with you to make sure the area is secure. A team of four or five should do the trick. If you’re going to go to some secluded village out in the middle of nowhere, I won’t have you going alone.”

“Jack’s right,” says Torbjörn, twisting one of the braids of his beard. “You might as well bring the lot of us with you. You’d need someone to make sure the armor is in good shape to begin with, after all.”

“You’d need a pilot as well,” adds Tracer. “How else do you plan on getting there?”

“And you would require fast, reliable transportation back to the ship,” says Satya. She weaves a wireframe in between her palms, displaying the crude form of a teleporter base between her fingers. “I can guarantee a swift connection between the ship and our destination. Once you have the armor, we can transport it through the teleporter and be on our way. Quick, clean, and simple.”

“I don’t suppose you’d be in need of some heavy lifting, yeah? Them things don’t look too light.” Junkrat jerks a thumb back at Roadhog with a sly smile. “We got you covered.”

“I should like to assist as well.” Zenyatta’s synthetic voice sounds from somewhere behind her, gentle and even. “Burying the dead is a laborious task, but it may be made easier with help. I would make amends for what damage my brethren wrought in wake of the Crisis.”

“And I’d like to bring an elixir or two along, just in case.” Ana lifts herself from her seat and pads over to Reinhardt’s side, her thin hand reaching out to brush a lock of his mane from his face. “A knight can never be too careful, you know. He needs his comrades. And all of us would be more than willing to lend a hand.”

Reinhardt’s shoulders droop as he covers his mouth with his hand. Satya thinks she can see him shudder, but she can’t be certain. “Thank you, my friends. You are very kind.”

“Hey now, we don’t need no thanks, all right?” McCree nods in Reinhardt’s direction. “Just looking out for you is all. Think of it as returning the favor.”

“He’s right, you know,” says Mei, patting her hands over the top of her weather drone. “What friends would we be if we didn’t help? Poor ones, I’d think.”

“Rather poor ones, indeed,” agrees Mercy. She offers Reinhardt a gentle touch on the shoulder, light yet encouraging, and smiles with tangible warmth. “Don’t worry, Reinhardt. We will come with you. Eichenwalde, you said? I remember that name. It was all over the news all those years ago, wasn’t it? The Crusaders’ last stand.”

He nods in affirmation, a slow and pensive gesture. “It is a very old place, and rich with Germany’s history. There is a great castle there at the back of the town, built many centuries ago. It used to be just another part of the village’s charm, some sort of attraction for tourists and travelers, but it eventually became the last bastion between Stuttgart and the omnic march.” Reinhardt stifles a dark chuckle. “Stone walls flanked by a dozen Crusaders hold surprisingly well against bullets.”

“A grim outcome. The slaughter of an entire unit in exchange for the safety of a city. Necessary, and yet unnecessary all the same.” Ana draws a weary sigh. “At least they will be honored properly. They were brave soldiers, much like their companion here. I hope this will help put you at ease.”

Reinhardt’s mouth thins in a wan smile. “Not quite. But it is a start, I think. I carry on in their name. I also carry on in the name of Overwatch. I will honor the Crusaders and my master by quashing whoever is responsible for the events that threaten us with another war. Justice will be done.”

“Noble, but justice needs a little direction first.” Morrison grins in amusement across the tactician table, unfolding his arms in the pale light from the hologram. “We’ll have to work on assigning a team together and decide on a suitable time for deployment. While I’m sure all of you would like to make the journey, we still need some bodies hanging around the watchpoint. Torbjörn’s and Symmetra’s defenses are impressive, but no system is foolproof.”

“Aye, but it’s damn close,” says Torbjörn.

Satya provides him with a pointed look behind Mercy’s back. “You’re welcome for the support.”

Torbjörn grumbles under his breath, but gives her a playful wink.

“The quicker we decide on the details, the better off we will be.” Genji adjusts himself in the chair, crossing his arms over his chest. Some of the outer plates of his armor have been removed, Satya notes, and a smooth bodysuit lies beneath. “It is in our best interest to do it as soon as possible. After we retrieve this set of armor and return, we can hit our next mark that much sooner. Whatever operations Talon has for Doomfist or any other artifacts, we must be ready to meet them.”

“While I’d normally agree with you, there are a few things we need to take care of first before half of us take a trip to Germany,” says Winston. “Our communicative frequency and the devices, for one. I don’t trust what happened to Lena’s, especially with it falling into Talon’s hands, so it will be up to me and Symmetra to make another set.”

“My notes are very thorough,” says Satya, a swell of pride blooming in her chest, “and I already have plans in mind for another prototype. I can get right to work after we finish here today, so I may have something for you tomorrow. I can integrate whatever sort of changes you plan on making to the inner receiver without input, but it would be best if I could see the intended size before anything becomes ‘official,’ so to speak.”

“Most definitely,” says Winston, and flashes a proud grin at her. “I’ll hop back to the lab and start tinkering as soon as we’re done. I might be able to make do with what we have, but don’t be surprised if I need to place an order or two for some extra parts.”

“All right, duly noted.” With a sigh, Morrison folds his hands together and squints up at the world map. “Well, since our options are restricted for the time being, let’s reconvene on this in another couple days and see where we’re at. In the meantime, let’s try to keep a focus on Talon. They’re aware we have intel of theirs, but to what extent, I have no idea. All I know is I’d rather be prepared for whatever they have for us at the next set of coordinates, so avoiding an encounter for now is the best course of action. At least until we get Reinhardt’s Crusader back in action. Then we can go from there.”

“Does that mean we’re breaking for lunch, then?” asks Tracer. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m famished.”

Winston glances down at his laptop over the rims of his glasses. “Well, it’s half past noon. I’d say that’s close enough. Why don’t we pick this up tomorrow, Commander? We can go over our progress for the communicators and check for any new leads.”

“Fair enough. These chairs are uncomfortable anyway.” Morrison raises himself from his seat and gives his stiff neck a crack. He groans in discomfort, but the release of tension lets him hold a laxer posture. “All right, tomorrow at 0900 hours. Go grab lunch and enjoy the rest of your afternoons. I’ll see everyone in the morning.”

As everyone starts to gather themselves up from their respective chairs and head toward the exit, Satya keeps a long sigh of relief locked within. While everything had not been quite as bad as she’d anticipated, it doesn’t stop the lingering thoughts. She could have paid more attention if she had been so inclined, and it bothers her that she’d been so invested in something—no, not some _thing_ , some _one_ ; she must face the truth—that she’d found herself too detached from admittedly very important conversations to retain the details. She remembers something vague about Doomfist and Numbani, something about the sighting of Reaper, but what exactly had been said?

Biting at the inside of her cheek, frustrated with herself, she blocks out the noise of shuffling footsteps and rumpling clothes and slinks past Genji and Mei and out of the conference room with a controlled yet hasty stride. She needs to clear her head, desperately, and she knows no better way of doing so than immersing herself in her work. After all, she’d promised Winston another prototype to undergo his scrutiny, and it would be poor etiquette not to fulfill her promise.

With renewed purpose, Satya crosses the watchpoint grounds and makes her way to the workshop. Ritual guides her hand across the cool keypad, and when the door hisses open for her to climb through, she is relieved to find it empty and unused—it looks like Reinhardt and Torbjörn had finished up their respective projects before booking it to the meeting. After glancing once over her shoulder to make sure no one has followed, she slips inside and allows the entrance to shut behind her.

She finds that Junkrat’s portion is still as cluttered as it always is, coupled with stray items scattered across the floor from Torbjörn’s corner of rumpled blueprints and dismantled turret components. A locked tablet is hooked up to the room’s ceiling projector, perhaps something Torbjörn had been showing Reinhardt concerning the Crusader, and the familiar hum of machinery churns back behind the walls. It seems odd to consider, but in spite of the people she shares this space with, it gives her a strange sense of peace and comfort, as if this were some sort of hallowed ground meant only for builders and those with a spark of creative blood in their veins. It feels even better when among her own things: this is a small slice of the outpost meant for her, an orderly space where everything has its place, and when she approaches the table with small turrets and discarded teleporter bases positioned just so and her writing utensils stashed away in the correct bin and her projects filed in proper order, the heartening swell of serenity swaths over her shoulders.

Perhaps it’s too soon, but it’s starting to feel like she might truly belong here.

Turning her focus toward the production of a new communicator, Satya combs for the sheaf of blueprints for the communicators out from among her other projects poised along the back shelf. She thumbs between the set for her newest teleporter model, another for various sentry turret enhancements, a thicker set for an old prototype shield generator, and yet another for the inner workings of her photon projector before she finds the flattened pages depicting her and her teammates’ ideas for designs. Tugging them out, she flattens them across the tabletop and smooths out the creases and wrinkles with the pads of her fingers. The papers are curled and twist upward when she draws away, and so she presses two ends down under the weight of a pair of blocky white pencils.

Slowly, Satya flips through the pages as she studies the varying designs. Her own slew of models pepper the front pages, ranging through four distinct types and each of their intricate shapes to fit their wearer’s head, and then graduate in a gradual pattern toward sketches and written paragraphs of ideas from the others. Winston had scratched out a few suggestions across two pages for her to consider, Mercy had written one or two just beyond Winston’s entries, and Mei had sketched a couple final critiques. Reinhardt had mentioned something on his own addition concerning the integration into the Crusader, but accommodating the request would be too far out of scope for Satya to achieve without ample input from Winston.

She peels back another page patterned with Genji’s elegant handwriting. Below it is a blank sheet divided by thin white gridwork: a fresh slate. It would be a decent place to sketch out a few more ideas before graduating to an entirely new set of blueprints for the next prototype, and it would save her from having other pages dedicated to brainstorming in an otherwise clean array of work. It would separate one project from the next, and give her a better sense of organization.

With her right hand, she plucks another white pencil from the metal canister toward the back of the tabletop. She smooths the heel of her palm out across the blank page, coercing the slight curls toward the ends of the sheet to flatten themselves against the metal table. As she glides her hand across the center of the page, a different texture presses up beneath her lifelines and causes her to take pause. Her brow wrinkles in puzzlement; she recognizes what it is—various lines raised from the back of the page due to previously applied pressure through writing—but she doesn’t remember taking any kind of notes on the opposite sides of any of the sheets. In fact, she doesn’t remember anything being written past Genji’s comments. Perhaps one of the others had decided to write additional suggestions or ideas beyond their allotted page? Or perhaps Torbjörn had rifled through her things and stumbled upon her blueprints?

Frowning in thought, Satya takes the end of the sheet between the black fingergrips of her gauntlet and pulls it back. When she turns and sees what is splayed across its surface, shock yanks her a sharp step backward from the open page. The pencil clatters to the tabletop, and surprise knots itself in her throat.

Over the entirety of the turned page is a full, intricate, and incredibly detailed set of designs for a potential prototype. There is a large primary sketch in the very center of the page, utilizing the majority of her ideas while applying certain requests from the others, ultimately building off of her current model, and there are two smaller sketches located in the top leftmost corner and the bottom rightmost corner with small tweaks made to the initial prototype design. A fourth and final sketch rests at the bottom left-hand corner, portraying an entirely different approach to a communicator—instead of the general shell-like shape to cover the ear, the model has more of a skeletal resemblance, hooking around back behind the user’s ear with a prominent arc while the housing for the inner circuitry would rest inside the user’s ear itself, much like a hearing aid.

Scrawled narration encompasses each drawing in slanting blocks squished about their exteriors, pointing out specific changes between the displayed models with white blocky arrows and small squares scritched around certain sentences to emphasize importance. The handwriting itself has an almost hasty look to its letters, some of them narrow and others mashed together, as if the writer had been pressed for time when transcribing their ideas. The text consists of mostly capital letters, she notes, although some alternate between capitals and lowercase. The overall style looks vaguely familiar, especially with the scrawled and scratchy feel, but if she’s seen it before, she can’t quite remember where.

As Satya further inspects the page, she catches sight of something that makes her freeze. Among the copious amounts of text are a handful of small drawings fitted in the designated would-be margins. While drawings in themselves do not particularly warrant surprise, the ones on the page are not just any drawings—each one depicts a caricature portrait marked with prominent yet recognizable features: wild hair shaped into three prominent spikes, a sloping widow’s peak, the rigid angles of a sharp face, and two small dots to represent eyes. The caricatures differ in expression from drawing to drawing, some laced with excitement while others hold a more thoughtful countenance, and each seems to react to the text they have been scribbled beside.

There is no question: everything on this page belongs to Junkrat. The fleshed out designs, the chicken scratch handwriting, the little images of himself; everything is a product of his time, his energy, and a cornucopia of nagging ideas. When exactly had he managed this? she wonders, pathing the black grip of her finger down the small depressions in the sheet of paper. Had the sheaf somehow been passed to him while the others were adding their suggestions? But if it had, wouldn’t she have seen it upon its return? Or had it been after The Incident, when he’d taken them from the lush outcrop for ‘safekeeping’? Or did he somehow manage to steal them away from her space in her absence only to return them to their designated spot sometime later?

Sudden realization forces her to take pause. Reinhardt’s comment in the workshop following post-Incident: _pencils_. Yes, she remembers, pencils; quite clearly she remembers pencils, that Reinhardt had mentioned Junkrat was in the workshop looking for pencils— _her_ pencils, no doubt—and had spirited away back to his room with the least amount of interaction he could manage. Pencils, pencils; Junkrat must have worked on them on the very day she’d mustered the courage to go after him and ask for their return. But if that is the truth, if he’d really produced all of this in a single sitting shortly before she’d arrived, then why had they been so far beneath his bed? Had he simply stuffed them there after finishing with the thought that she wouldn’t want to confront him? Or had he been too uneasy, too unsure about his own designs?

Satya flattens her pencil upon the table and takes a deep, shuddering breath. Her eyes scan the scribbled writing as she attempts to gather herself. She doesn’t know what to make of this, especially something so detailed and in depth. Only Winston’s notes might rival their intricacy, and those are related to her work through his portion of the project; they concern the inner circuitry he’d replicate and provide for each model. In fact, despite the rudimentary nature of the language in the texts, the detail might even rival her own. There is a great amount of depth here, an _impressive_ amount, and she supposes she would need a good block of time to sit down and study everything, and once she gets a better idea of where he’s coming from with these proposed models, then perhaps she might try to implement particular pieces into a new prototype.

As she scans the rest of the page, something else snags her attention. Down below at the very bottom of the page is what looks to be a hastily written note, cramped into smaller letters and separated from the other blocks of text. The white tip of the pencil had been pressed harder here; there is a greater indent upon the sheet in the path of where each letter is shaped, as if a coil of frustration had driven his hand.

Her brow wrinkles and she brings her right hand down to frame the note. Next to the slope between her thumb and forefinger reads the following:

_SAtYA—_

_I HOPe tHeSE HELP! YOU SAiD YOU DiDN’T HAVe A LOt OF tIME LeFT SO I tHOUGHt YOU MiGHt WANt ANOTHeR IDeA OR 2! I DON’T tHiNK YOU’LL SEE tHeSE RIGHt AWAY, GUeSSING iT’LL bE ROUND 2 OR 3 bEFORe YOU NOTiCe? STiLL MiGHt bE SOMetHING FOR tHE NEXt ONe!  LOOKeD AT tHE OTHeR STUFF HeRE, ReAL KEEN ON tHE APe’S PAGe, SNOWbALL HAD A GOOD IDeA ON tHE THiNNeR biT bUT SHe WeNT AbOUt iT ALL WRONG, I TRiED USiNG WHAt YOU HAD AND bUiLt OFF iT WiTH SOMe OF tHE OTHeRS bUT I DON’t ReALLY KNOW MeASUReMENTS SO MiGHT bE DiFFeRENt . . . tHE MeASURiNG STiCK HELPeD A LOt WiTH tHE NEW ONE UP tHeRE_ [a small arrow is drawn from the margin here, leading up toward the direction of the drawing in question] _, I KNOW iT’S DiFFEReNt FROM WHAt YOU DiD bUT MiGHT bE WORtH A SHOt RiGHt?_

Before she continues reading, her eyes dart up to the top of the note. Biting at the inside of her lip, her thumb traces over the scratchy letters that compose her first name. She knows it isn’t like other names, not like typical English or Anglicized names—she has had many a person ask how to spell and pronounce both her first and last name—and a part of her wonders where he might have found the spelling. Had he looked it up somewhere, perhaps? Or he had asked Athena?

Bewildered, Satya drags her fingers down to the remainder of the note. Certain pieces have been scratched out into jumbles of static white graphite; it looks like he’d been indecisive and plagued by second guesses concerning his word choice, and lacking an eraser, he had been left with no choice but to scratch them out. Other words have thicker letters than others, the product of lining over them again and again and with increasing strength, although whether the bolding is unintentional otherwise, she can’t be sure.

The rest, riddled with corrections and fixes, reads:

 _I DON’t KNOW_ [hard scratches are here, crossing out two words; why you—] _WHeN YOU’Re COMiNG bACK FOR THiS? I’D bRiNG iT bUt YOU_ [more scratched out words, an entire line] _RAN OFF! DON’t WANt TO_ [scare—? oh] _MAKe ANYtHiNG WORSE . . . WHeN YOU GEt iT bACK I DON’t MiND tALKiNG AbOUT_ [more scratches; what you di—] _ALL tHE DRAWiNGS, STiLL GOT A LOt OF IDeAS! MiGHT HeLP A biT!_

Her pulse quickens. The implication strings a twinge down her back and she finds her breathing has grown shallow. After so long of trying to ignore The Incident and purge it from her waking memory, it is such a strange, twisting feeling to have proof of its occurrence written out in front of her, even in inexplicit terms. Neither of them have mentioned The Incident at all or acknowledged it to one another in any way; she’d made sure to maximize her distance in the aftermath to prevent such a confrontation, altering her routines to ensure her presence would never coincide with his, and he’d seemed to do the same, although his reasoning had apparently been for something else— _don’t want to make anything worse_.

Was that it? she wonders, pressing the pads of her fingers against the writing. Was that why he’d acted the way he had? Did he want to avoid exacerbating the situation, avoid making her uncomfortable? And he wants to talk. He’s _wanted_ to talk. About his designs, certainly, but if the ruthless scratch marks are any indication—

Clenching her jaw, Satya’s eyes dart down to the very end of the page. Just below, there is only a single sentence scribbled beneath the bulk of the note, written with an even harder pressure into the paper:

_I DON’t MiND WHAt HAPPeNED EiTHeR._

All of her stills in a gripping panic. There is no way she could possibly misconstrue the reference. He means The Incident, surely; he means sitting on the outcrop with her, one leg crossed; he means dusk exhaling its stars across the sky as the ocean gathers the sun’s sinking rays; he means the gravity of the pause she’d taken, the adjustment of his shirt; he means her taking him by the chin and leaning up to kiss his cheek. And maybe he means earlier that morning, too. Maybe he means staring at her in the hangar under the shadow of the ORCA or keeping her secured in his lap with his arm around her side or grinning as he’d swiped pieces of chocolate cake from her plate.

And he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t mind. _He doesn’t mind._

But what does that _mean_ , she panics, flustered and overcome—does that mean he liked the gesture? Does that mean he wants it to happen again? Does that mean he’s interested? Does that mean he’s decided his previous interest isn’t something worth pursu—

_“I’m telling you, mate, she ain’t like that.”_

Oh.

Oh, no.

Satya’s fingers curl, crinkling the surface of the page. A thick string of tension coils down through her hands and twists into her knuckles and metacarpals and into the heels of her palms. The percussive drum of her heart tightens down her throat, and she finds that her mouth has become far too dry. Something vicious whorls in the hollow of her chest, gnashing against her lungs and pressing up against the backs of her ribs, and she wishes she could somehow carve it out and wrench it away, but she can’t. Leaning her weight against the workshop table, she stares at the white handwriting scrawled across the rigid gridwork and the vivid blue of the page, and yet everything seems to devolve into a smeared blur; none of the words spur recognition, none of the letters register; there is only the rich palette of sunset and a shock of body heat and the repetitive churn of _I don’t mind_.

It makes sense now. It truly does. She had been right: all the others are noncandidates, and they’re noncandidates because they always have been. None of them have shown anything but camaraderie and friendship. None of them have continually sought out his company and enjoyed idle conversations at the ocean’s edge or at the workshop or looking out over the craggy beaches down the slope of the Rock. None of them had agreed to participate in a competition to see who could save the other the most— _just for us_ —and none of them had been cajoled into an outing into downtown Gibraltar under the guise of owing half an engine.

Slowly, Satya brings her palm against her mouth as a trembling exhale releases from her lungs. She’s the one he was talking about, isn’t she? She is. She must be. She’s the one he had been referring to that morning in the hangar. She’s the one he spoke of while he toyed with the sapphire blade between his fingers, drenched in sunlight and with the scent of motor oil clinging to his clothes. He said she was too good for that sort of thing—flirting? Does he really think she’s too good for flirting? What else does he think she’s too good for?—and vehemently denied any sort of involvement, citing that any participation would jeopardize their employment. And while that might be true, as it is never a good idea to get romantically involved with those you work with, she starts to wonder if that had only been a means to mislead his prying bodyguard.

Satya continues to stare at the note, throat tight and palms sweating and unable to draw a proper breath. Since she was assimilated into Vishkar’s academy in her youth, she has spent her life interacting with people in various respects. She has spoken with established clients, prospective customers, mayors, city councils, and citizens hailing from an array of backgrounds. She is not unused to how one is expected to behave and socialize with others, and she has perfected her corporate façades to facilitate those kinds of interactions. There are some things she has trained herself to be acutely aware of, like certain types of body language or voice inflection, but there are some aspects of social interaction that do not quite click, and it can be a challenge to parse the context of some actions from the context of others.

As a result, subtle things like flirting are often lost in translation. It does not help that interpersonal relationships have always proved somewhat difficult to navigate on varying levels, especially regarding touching and eye contact. Both are necessary in select situations in the business world, and she has always made do with the discomfort of both throughout her entire professional career. Acclamation had been a rather slow process to endure, but things like handshakes are swift and simple, and staring at someone’s nose is an easier feat than looking at them head on.

There are exceptions, of course. Sanjay is one of them. His continuous presence post-academy has made him a stable fixture in Satya’s life, and under his tutelage, she was able to pave a path for herself up Vishkar’s corporate ladder. His company has always taken the edge away after a difficult meeting or a particularly stubborn client, and when she’d lingered in Utopaea among Vishkar’s offices, embraces or a locked arm provided her with a steeping sense of comfort. Years ago, Arasi had been yet another exception; lacing hands during late morning brunches and soft hugs while practicing Bharatanatyam sequences in Arasi’s living room had been frequent and appreciated gestures, and coy kisses on hot and rainy afternoons filled the spaces between projects and travel. Even after their departure, Satya had greatly cherished both their company and relationship despite their views concerning long distance and career paths. A few of her other colleagues—José, Eesvari, Maraan in particular—through years of working together and becoming well acquainted through shared projects have wedged their way into exceptions as well. Their presence has become a comforting thing, José’s in particular, and never has she minded an affectionate embrace from any of them.

There are exceptions, of course, as there always are, and it should not come as a surprise that she now finds Junkrat among them. Touching him is not like shaking hands with a potential client, a distinguished public figure, nosy news staff, or prying journalists. Gazing at him is not like keeping eye contact with a person of authority who can singlehandedly decide the fate of Vishkar’s presence. Talking with him is not like her business oriented meetings with Sanjay, or the childhood tales she’d shared with Eesvari, or even like the tender note Arasi had left for her on the day they’d left. Everything is altogether different: his touches are to haul her onto rooftops or carry her from harm while a round lies punctured in her leg; his eye contact always accompanies wide smiles, ranging laughs, and the occasional simper; his conversations are teasing and prodding and punctuated with off-color jokes or collections of very bad puns.

And flirting, she realizes, running the pad of her finger across the small depressions across the page. It’s been flirting. The teasing, the staring, the coaxing, the team exercise, the grenade shells, the outing, the _tea_ , the bloody _handstand_ —it’s all been flirting. Every single last bit. When he’d flashed a wild grin and called her dynamite, when he’d settled the tea boxes atop her head by the outcrop under sunset, when he’d stolen portions of cake from her plate on the ocean promenade, and even when he’d called her snippy while traversing Lijiang’s streets—gods, it’s been everything, hasn’t it?

Everything.

Everything since _when_? When had this started? How long has she stumbled about not knowing? Before the hangar, surely, but how long before the hangar? When she’d been tied up in a weapons trafficking warehouse in Dorado? When she’d fled with him over the hot stone of Gibraltar’s streets? When he’d clasped his arms around her waist and swore on his mother’s grave before the ocean could heave up to meet them both?

She digs her teeth into her lip and slams her hands down against the tabletop, crinkling the blueprints beneath in cracked whorls spiderwebbing out from the broken threads switched into the valleys of her palms. Tension cords through her shoulders, her back, her arms, flanking the sides of her throat and locking a tight knot down under the dip of her chin. The scratching presence of disbelief pricks at the sides of her ribs and she finds herself spun in a flustered tangle she does not know how to disengage from.

Never has she felt so incredibly blind.

As she continues to stare at the note, the sound of the workshop door sliding open carves a tendril of shock through her bones. She recognizes what comes next: staggered footsteps punctuated by the unmistakable _click_ of metal against metal striking with every other step. They begin to make their way toward the rightmost side of the room with intent, with purpose, and she doesn’t need to look to know that the gait belongs to Junkrat. It’s telling how its pace alters as he paths between piles of inventory, shifting amongst displaced parts and bottles of components, and it draws to a halt as he takes pause before the back tables, parallel to where she stands. Rummaging then commences at her peripheral; he sweeps aside unnecessary pieces and half-finished compositions and rumpled scraps of discarded papers—a decidedly noisy affair, and yet somehow less percussive and intrusive than his very first week in the workshop.

With a brimming hum of anxiety smothered under her skin, Satya folds the blueprint pages back over into their appropriate position. She takes care to let her frantic haste remain unnoticed, cording every movement with the fluid precision she channels into her _mudras_ and the expressions Bharatanatyam requires. After the note has been buried amongst the pages, she collects the white pencils scattered along the tabletop and places them back into their marked bin. She then curls up the blueprints, ensures they are properly aligned, and sets them back among her various projects. Shaking adrenaline has flooded her from the realization of the note’s significance, and another shot rockets through beneath her breastbone at his presence. The vivid imagery of his dreamlike counterpart poised over top of her and guiding his mouth across her wrists begins to dominate her thoughts, and when a familiar clench of want wrings taut in her lower belly, she knows she has no choice but to leave. Staying here would only place her in a position she does not yet want to be in; confronting him about something so personal in nature is not something she could possibly be ready for this soon.

Drawing herself into a straight and rigid posture, Satya holds in a sharp breath and pushes herself away from the tabletop. She is careful and deliberate in her movements: she turns to her left, her back to Junkrat, and she starts her way toward the workshop door. Half-finished pieces scattered about from Torbjörn’s projects stare at her at their places from the opposite side of the room, turret bases and firing mechanisms and discarded sheets of metal not yet forged into their proper product. Reinhardt’s towering Crusader armor hangs on its giant frame in the far corner, the colored slot of the visor providing her with a judging stare as she strides across the room.

Just before she can make her way to the threshold, Junkrat’s voice arises amongst the noise of his searching.

“Oi, you ever been to Germany?” It’s accompanied by soft clinks and the occasional scuffles of his rummaging, a palpable sliver of curiosity hewn into its timbre.

The temptation to glance over to her right coils into her nerves, but she resists. Satya releases the caged breath in her lungs, short and swift as if it somehow hurt to keep inside, and she reaches for the smooth metal climbing up her forearm with the pads of her fingers.

“I have, yes. Several times, in fact. I travelled there with a colleague of mine to gauge further expansion in Munich.” She hones her focus to keep her tone smooth and tempered, but it captures something much colder than what she’d intended. “Vishkar offered its expertise with reparation efforts there after the war. From what I understand, there were a lot of plans to overhaul the damaged sections of the city.”

A brief, thoughtful pause, and then: “That’s not where we’re going, is it?”

“No, it isn’t,” she says, and tries to coerce her voice into sounding less rigid. “Reinhardt mentioned it was a small town near Stuttgart. Eichenwalde, if I remember correctly. Munich is in another region altogether.”

“Right. Still, should be a fun little jaunt, yeah? Never been myself. Always wanted to do a little more travelling. Something to do while we wait. Might not be blowing up a tower, but least it’s something.” Something cylindrical rolls across the metal surface of the tabletop, angled from his direction; the sound of his hand snapping down over top of it commands the silence of the room. “But it’s weird, innit? Wandering about some dead town, collecting some dead bloke’s armor. Wonder if there’s anything else there other than a bunch of old skeleton knights.”

Satya keeps her stare along the shape of the door. She follows the rectangular edge of the metal threshold, the etched grooves into the face of the door itself, the sheen of the chrome reflecting metallic sheaves of light into the room. The familiar logo of Overwatch has been embossed across its surface, dark paint smoothed across the lower pieces while a streak of orange crests the very top.

“I wouldn’t know,” she says. “Reinhardt said the town was all but destroyed during the war. Remains of omnics, I imagine.”

“Yeah? Reckon so? Well, that’s fine by me.” Junkrat makes a very pleased noise from his half of the room. “Target practice.”

“There is a shooting range for that, you know,” she reminds him.

“That shoddy little lineup? Pff, you seen them targets Scarface’s got set up? Flimsy. None of em’s gonna hold up against what I’d lob at ‘em. ‘Sides, watching some bot blow up’s a hell of a lot better than a piece of painted wood.”

Absently, she is surprised Torbjörn hasn’t yet offered his skills in manufacturing some sort of practice robots for the rejuvenated shooting range, but she does her best to file the thought away for a later time. “Regardless, isn’t that the purpose of targets? You’re supposed to hit them, even if they are flimsy. It helps exercise your muscles through repetitive action and hones your aim.”

“Aim? Oi, I didn’t say anything ‘bout aim. Who needs aim, anyway?” He laughs, amused and lilting between octaves, and what sounds an awful lot like a mine casing setting down atop the table follows shortly afterward. “Aiming’s overrated. I just like the fireworks.”

Satya finds herself checking over the rise of her shoulder. Across the room, Junkrat leans himself against the surface of the back tabletop, his right elbow offering further support as his posture curls inward with lingering laughter. Patched camouflage shorts frame the cut lines of his hips, drawing attention to the blond trail that dips below his belt, the ripped and frayed ends falling just short of his knees. His blond hair is pale under the workshop lights, and yet the bleached sheen from the sun combs through in scattered highlights. The broad plane of his shoulders is soaked bronze, marred by uneven marks arcing over his trapezius muscles and pathing by his collarbone; the shirt, she thinks, and the thick straps from his grenade harness.

The desire to capture his jaws and pull him down toward her threads deeper and deeper through her bones.

Junkrat takes pause and looks up to meet her gaze, amusement latent in the richness of his eyes. He grins, a soft and familiar glint of gold at the corner of his mouth, and lifts himself away from the tabletop with a casual shove of his elbow. He clasps something in his left hand; it’s held tightly in the knot of his fist, blanching his knuckles as he sidles his thumb from side to side along his curled forefinger. He takes a couple of steps away from the scattered pieces strewn about the smooth metal surface of his project space before drawing himself up to his full and staggering height.

“Oi, catch!” he says, and slings the object toward her in the gentle arc of an underhanded toss.

Satya spins around halfway and reaches out to snatch it midair. She captures it between the black grips of her fingers, pressing it flush against the crystal embedded into her palm. Brow creasing, she thins her lips in thought and opens her hand. Balancing upon the sleek sapphire gem, a small crimson grenade shell rests with the artistry of another painted smile worked over its hull in white paint. The welded seam between the two halves has been done with a steadier hand than before, and along its circumference are little dots—no, not dots, she thinks; they are too elongated, and with what look like deliberate edges; crystals, perhaps?—each dabbed onto the casing with enough sky blue paint to give them a raised appearance. Smoothing her right thumb over the intricate line, she finds that the new decorations provide yet another different texture to his creation.

“Right, that’s three for three,” he says, gesturing to the shell. “Forgot to give that to you after the long drop. Reckon now’s as good a time as any, seeing as how we’re tied and all. Might find another lying around for the fourth. Well, if you get a fourth. Don’t think you’ll have much trouble with how the last three went, but skill’s skill, innit? Saving my neck sure seems to be one.”

“Did you make an entire set of these?” she asks, raising her stare to afford him a stern, questioning look.

“Maybe. Maybe not. Don’t matter, really.” He shrugs and reaches out with metal fingers to one of the small vials lying on the back table. Poising it between thumb and forefinger, he twists his wrist back and forth, taking advantage of the sheer range the ball joint provides. “I make a lot of ‘em. Good for keeping busy, right. Having a go at a little painting’s not so bad, either. Makes sure this thing’s still working like it should.” He nods at his prosthetic hand for emphasis. “If things get shaky, then I need to find me a new neuroboard.”

Satya’s heart pounds in the back of her mouth and she knows she needs to leave but the grenade shell seems to have pinioned her in place. It stares at her from the flat of her hand, its smile beaming at her as it stares upward with x-marked eyes. “You’re ambidextrous?”

“I’m what?” The question seems to take him by surprise.

“Ambidextrous,” she says. “It means you can write with both hands. Usually it is supposed to be equally well, but I wouldn’t discount adequate proficiency by any means.”

“Oh.” Junkrat rolls the vial between his fingers, as if contemplative. “Well, I dunno. Never really thought about it. Reckon so. Left’s better than the right, but not by much. I think I used the other one for writing when I still had it. Y’know, before this arm. Been a long time. Don’t really remember. I know this’s not nearly as good as the real one was. I can write and draw little things, but it takes longer. S’better for trigger pulling than for something like painting.”

“Was this done with your prosthesis?” The azure paint dotted along the casing’s seam has been executed in a particular pattern, alternating between opposing sides of the welded line, and it seems like each small drop had been placed deliberately. “If it was, I would say that your proficiency is more than adequate.”

“Face was with me right, and the little marks was with me left.” His palm settles on the back of his neck, the callused pads of his fingers scratching by his hairline. “Y’know. Just for practice. Brushing up.”

“I see.” The little shell smiles at her, silent laughter shut between its painted teeth, and the scratched writing of his note resonates under her skin. Lines of pressed white graphite compose his imaginings into the undersides of her thoughts, and she finds herself tightening her grip upon the casing. “I’m curious, and I must ask… Do you draw with your right hand as well?”

“Eh. Sometimes. Depends, I guess. It’s different ‘cause you can’t feel much. Feeling’s just not the same way, y’know? Least not with this thing. S’more like ghosts than anything else. Maybe other models are better, right, the real ripper ones with all them sleek designs and proper sizes. They got sensors, I think. Something like that. Good ones, and better neuroboards stuffed in ‘em. Things like that. Let you feel more.” His mouth slants into a thoughtful line as he continues to toy with the little vial, guiding it between the bends of mechanical fingers and over the flat heads of the screws over his knuckles. “Don’t gotta worry about all that with the real one. Drawing’s easier. Don’t have to pay too much attention or anything. No worries ‘bout snapping pencils. Just find a page and start scribbling.”

Satya pulls her gaze away from the smiling shell and locks her gaze with his. There is something strange that shapes his countenance—regret, perhaps, or enveloping nostalgia—and it delves into worry lines and shifts into the bruiselike smudges painted beneath his eyes. His adam’s apple dips in a swallow, and the rest of him seems to still. The bottle comes to a gradual halt beneath the orange metal of his palm.

“Well, regardless of whatever obstacles you have, you draw very well,” she says. The words are quieter than she’d anticipated, the kind of cool and calming quiet that trails the fingers of rainy days and sticks to the windowsills as the drops roll down in shining sheets of glass. “You have a very keen attention to detail. It’s quite remarkable.”

“Nah. I dunno about that. S’just scribbles. Nothing important. Gets ideas out so I don’t gotta think about ‘em.” His shoulders bob in a nonchalant shrug, and the amber in his eyes seems to sharpen under the workshop lights. “Where’d you go about seeing scribbles of mine, anyhow?”

“Your notebook.” It’s said too fast, she thinks, as if the staccato punctuality of a response could somehow expose its purpose as a white lie, but she pulls in a steeling breath and consciously regulates her voice to slower, softer, and more deliberate tone. “I remember seeing it aboard the ship on more than one occasion. You showed it to me briefly, if you remember. I thought the designs were impressive. So were the ones in your room. You mentioned you have designs for prosthetics as well. The very nature of such things dictates that they must be detailed. With all of the small components in explosives, your line of work is no exception.”

Junkrat’s fingers curl back over the vial. His posture slackens as he leans himself back against the table, metal elbow resting upon its chrome surface, and his jaw begins to work as he bites at the edge of his lower lip. The small bottle starts to make its way between screws and hinges again, tumbling over and under and into the flat of his palm.

“Right, yeah, I forgot about that,” he says. “I did show you some of ‘em, didn’t I?”

“You did. They were ideas for new variations of your explosives, or at least that’s what I assumed. That was several weeks ago. More recently, I remember seeing some sort of unique weapon design over in your workspace. I’d never seen anything like it.” The ramping intensity of his stare causes her to turn her gaze back toward the side of the room, strewn amongst his chaotic piles of miscellaneous inventory. She bites her tongue; the compelling pull to mention what she’d found scrawled toward the unused pages of her blueprints seems to burn at the back of her mouth, aching as if she’d swallowed a coal.

“It’s a rework,” he says, and reaches over toward the stack of rumpled papers shoved to one side of the cluttered tabletop. He thumbs through the pages with his left hand and plucks one out from amongst the stack, splaying it open across the smooth surface for further inspection. “Eh, well, sort of. More of an entire overhaul, come to think of it. Whole new everything. S’just something I wouldn’t mind trying when me current one decides she’s had enough. She’s still ticking, though, so might be a while before I get a chance to give this a go.” With a shrug, he slides the page back across the table by the pads of his fingers and lets it linger near the stack. “Only problem is I’d need to do some extra scrounging to find all the right bits and bobs to throw her together. Procuring ain’t easy, ‘specially with how she’s gonna work.”

“I assume that would include more of your so-called ‘scrap runs,’” she says.

Junkrat flicks the tiny bottle upward into the air with a twitch of his thumb before catching it again. “Probably. And probably a drop of tea, too. Might pop by that shop again if we’re around.”

“We?” Satya’s grip on the grenade shell tightens, and she begins to roll it back and forth between the black grips of her fingers.

“Yeah. Me and Hog. He won’t let me drive his bike on me own or else I’d be doing my scrapping solo.” Carefully, he settles the vial back against the table, thumb and forefinger curled around the curved glass of its body. “Could probably nick some old clunker or one of them nice techno rigs if I really wanted. Nobody’s ever watching in this place and hot wiring’s real easy. Skip ‘round town and swipe what I need in a heartbeat. Even if I did, don’t think the monkey would be too keen on the idea. You ever seen how big he gets when he’s miffed? ‘Less I feel like being launched over ‘cross the pond, it’s the either the big lug and his bike, or I hoof it down a bloody mountain.”

“Well, while I am quite glad you don’t have any plans to steal someone else’s vehicle,” she says, clasping the shell far too tight, “I sincerely doubt Winston would throw you across the ocean for it. Even if he were angry, I find it unlikely he would want to threaten your life in any way. He would have Roadhog’s ire to contend with, and I’m certain there would be others who would be just as cross.”

Junkrat glances up at her, his left hand resting against the side of the table. “Others? Ain’t that a little generous?”

“I don’t think so. I know I would certainly be displeased with such disorderly conduct displayed by someone who holds a high position of authority within our group.” She turns her focus back toward him, and with earnest. A knot of strength curls down beside her lungs and digs its roots through her bloodstream. “Even if you _do_ choose to steal a vehicle, no one will throw you anywhere. I can’t speak for the local authorities on that matter, of course, but even if they do still somehow utilize barbaric corporal punishment, they would definitely not toss you into the ocean.”

A smile cracks its way in. “Right. Well, that’s a relief. I can sleep easy now.”

“That doesn’t mean the choice _not_ to steal is any less prudent,” she says.

“Hey, all right, I’m working on it. I am. Sorta. Got the tea, remember? No accosting or anything. Cross me heart.” Angling himself toward her, Junkrat hops up on the surface of the table and lets his prosthetic leg hang off the side. The empty vial begins to travel between both hands, rolling along fingers and under knuckles before capturing in his left fist. His shoulders slump with his leaning posture, and as he tucks his boot over the metal plate of his knee, he affords the smooth glass a thoughtful look. “This stuff’s bloody hard yakker, y’know,” he says, thumb tapping against its surface. “Working with an outfit like this. Going legit. Gotta keep your gob shut and your head down ‘cause of all them politics. Feels like you got a box around you or something. Dunno how you stand it.”

“Practice.” With a deep breath, Satya shifts her attention away from the warmth unfurling through her chest and along her fingertips and directs it at the floor instead. “There are a number of things that require practice, and adapting to a new set of rules and surroundings is one of them. You said yourself this is nothing like Junkertown. Was that tea the first thing you’ve ever purchased here?”

“Maybe,” he says.

“Really?”

“Right, I said maybe. I didn’t say it was. Said _maybe_.”

Satya raises an eyebrow. “Maybe.”

“Maybe.” He offers a dismissive shrug. “Maybe or not, everything’s set up. Well, for the most part. Had it in the works for years, right, but never bothered. Never really needed it. No point when you’re popping from place to place. But now that all this’s come about, reckon might as well. Least now you don’t gotta keep track of my tea tab or anything.”

“Whatever you incurred was paid back with the tea on the Catalan. As far as I’m concerned, there is no tab. If there are more in the future, then I assume they will be paid back in a similar manner.”

Junkrat pauses, his hands coming to a gradual still. “There’ll be more,” he says, and it isn’t a question.

“I wouldn’t protest. I did say I like sweet things on occasion.” Satya slides the shell to her other palm, and the warmth from her gauntlet webs through her body heat. “Unless you would prefer otherwise.”

“Well… you had errands. That’s what that cloth shop was, right? And the box that old sheila gave you. That’s why you went. You went to meet up with her. Well, and for tea. The boxes and all that for Nan.” He begins to fidget with the vial once more as his shoulders draw inward. “Right, yeah, so unless you owe me another engine I don’t know about or you got some other errands you’re keen on finishing up, I’d say you’re off the hook. ‘Sides, you seemed in a right hurry to get back once we started going up the Rock. If having a ride downtown ain’t your cup of tea, I ain’t about to force it.”

Heat brims too closely beneath her skin. It seems to stick against her skin and breathe through her clothes, and there is no way of escaping the pull that clenches at her stomach. She wants to say that it’s true, it wasn’t her cup of tea, that sitting in his lap and being pressed against him was an entirely foreign feeling, but in spite of that, she has no qualms about doing it again. She wants to say that there is no amount of disliked tea that could make her avoid riding with him a second, third, or fourth time, and that she finds both his and Roadhog’s company a strange sort of comforting. She wants to say that he most certainly wouldn’t have to force her; in fact, he’d most likely have to pry her away once she got comfortable, and she doesn’t know how to feel about that other than completely and utterly lost.

This is doubt, she thinks, watching the soft creases frame his brow. He doesn’t mind, he doesn’t mind, but she’s spurned further attempts at getting close and this is _doubt_ because she doesn’t reply with witty rejoinders or equally sharp sarcasm like before; this is doubt because he’d made her laugh on the beachside and he’d seen one of the small red creations she’d kept as talismans planted by her bedside and she’d whisked away with winter in her eyes; this is doubt because she’d given him the rest of her milk tea and still she’d run from him and proceeded to avoid him for the entirety of the following day; this is doubt because the kiss she’d carved upon his cheek must still _burn_.

“It was not forced.” Her tone is smooth and even, a tempered blade with a silken surface, and yet far softer than before. “I chose to go of my own volition. At any point prior to our departure, I could have told you I would have rather made the trip myself. And if I’d wanted to leave, I have no doubt you and Roadhog would have returned me.”

Junkrat’s peg begins to swing in a slow pendulum. The hinges protest in soft creaks between the orange plates. “Right. Yeah. Yeah, sure. We woulda popped you back if you wanted, no worries. But you didn’t say nothing.”

“No, I didn’t,” she says, “because it was something I wanted to experience.”

Slowly, Junkrat’s countenance begins to soften. His eyes rise from the mountainous landscape shaping the floor in front of him, bright and wide, and his jaws clench with a swallow. Tension cords through his neck and shoulders as he uncurls himself; hard muscle coils taut down his belly and through his arms, and his posture overcorrects into a stiff line. His foot slides down from the plate of his knee and hangs off the table, ankle hooking around the metal peg to keep it still. Shadows fracture across the contours of his face, his jaws, the cut line of his collarbone beneath the paleness of the workshop lights. The vial migrates to his prosthetic hand, and he closes it in his fist with purpose. With the other hand, he begins to trace where she’d kissed across his right cheek with the backs of his knuckles.

“Symmetra—”

“Jamison,” she interrupts, perhaps a bit too harshly, but a fluttering panic has erupted in a heavy pounding in her chest and she feels she has no choice: harshness will push him back, and that is all she can hope to do. She knows he wants to talk, he must want to talk, he _must_ , his note said as much, even if it only mentioned designs, but she _can’t_.

He stares at her with a half open mouth, prosthetic fingers clenched around the glass vial. Startlement has claimed his body language; all of him sits in rigid stillness, one fist in his lap while the other lingers by his cheek, his good leg crooked at an angle to still his right. Something seems to jolt through his hand, cracking through uneven heartlines crissing over his fingers and palm, and he then combs the pads of his fingers through his widow’s peak and the mess of new growth at the back of his scalp. Amber eyes dart from her to the floor, to Reinhardt’s armor, to his piles of inventory, to the stowed chairs, and back to the floor again before locking onto her with a gripping intensity.

Before he can manage another word, she opens her hand to display the crimson shell.

“Thank you,” she says, and gives it a delicate twist between her fingers. “I do appreciate these. They prove to be a good distraction.”

“My pleasure,” he says. It’s so much lower than before, as if it were still too earthed down inside of him to be heard, and it reminds her of how he’d sounded by the beachside as he dredged up the painted casing from the damp sand.

Tucking the crystal patterned shell back into her palm, she encloses it within her fist and turns back toward the door. The black grips of her gauntlet find the small panel on the wall beside the doorframe and press one of the larger keys. A soft hum whirs inside the wall, and the door slides its way to the side to let her through. One final glance tells her all she needs to know: he’s watching, and with uncertainty.

Satya makes her way back to the barracks with a brisk pace. His creation rests firmly in her hand and she can’t stop herself from tracing her thumb over the raised textures. Her heart continues to drum a hastened rhythm, loud and intense and splintering, and it nearly drowns out the criticisms crawling out of her inner conscience: _you cannot run away from this, you cannot hide, you cannot avoid it forever; it will only build and build and build until it towers above you and consumes you whole, and he will be the cause of its destruction_ —and the strike of her pulse thrums over each syllable, a drowned echo in the back of her mind, leaving only a constant rhythm she cannot ignore.

The Incident comes rushing back, just as it always does, and she finds herself rolling the shell between her fingers. She needs space to think, to breathe, to process, to understand herself and the note and everything that implies, and all she can think of is guiding him into more than a chaste kiss on the cheek.

He doesn’t mind, she thinks, another cadence layered beneath her heartbeat: he doesn’t mind, he doesn’t mind, _he doesn’t mind_.

When she finds herself back in her secluded space with her desk and her gauntlet’s case and the empty glass of water and the two shells resting in silence at her bedside, she slides off her shoes and climbs over top of the crisp blankets. The desire to feel the pressure of them drawn over her scratches at her consciousness, but she brushes it aside and breathes into the coolness of her pillow. The textured casing is still clasped in her hand, now flat against the blanket, and she rolls it against the lifelines of her palm as she moves it over the sheets.

Jamison doesn’t mind. He doesn’t mind.

But does she?

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [not for a very long time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8773603) by [deathtosanepeople](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathtosanepeople/pseuds/deathtosanepeople)
  * [Junkrat after Chapter 41](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10559920) by [Lizar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizar/pseuds/Lizar)




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